


Hardest of Hearts

by HalfPintWitch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 15:33:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 57,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfPintWitch/pseuds/HalfPintWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes: Cold, apathetic, brilliant. After returning from saving Irene Adler from execution Sherlock discovers a new doctor has been hired at St Bart's. Although seemingly normal on the outside, her eyes tell a different story and Sherlock finds himself drawn in to her mysterious persona, bringing with him emotion, fear and loss. Set pre-Reichanbach Fall, Sherlock/OC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Prologue**

****

**_Three Questions_ **

_What was it like to love him? Asked Gratitude._

_It was like being exhumed, I answered. And brought to life in a flash of brilliance._

_What was it like to be loved in return? Asked Joy._

_It was like being seen after perpetual darkness, I replied. To be heard after a lifetime of silence._

_What was it like to lose him? Asked Sorrow._

_There was a long pause before I responded:_

_It was like hearing every goodbye ever said to me- said all at once._

_-Lang Leav_

* * *

Time heals all wounds. Or so they say. Mine are still ripped open like they were inflicted yesterday. Still oozing with the blood of loss, aching with the pain of longing. Longing for what could never be, never was and never will. My name is Everleigh Rose Braxton, Ev for short; Ellie is what he would call me however. Him and only him. Our time together was short, unfinished, there was still so much more to write, but some things just can never come to pass. For a while I was afraid to admit it, but now, I say it proudly, as if it were a gift bestowed only to me. Which, in all matters of thinking it was. I love Sherlock Holmes. My thoughts drip with the regrets of never telling him those three little words, I'll never get the chance, and I will never heal. I see his face with every blink of my eyes, emerging from the darkness, reminding me of my omission. His being will echo through my mind, every thought, every decision until the day I can finally be at peace. Be with him once again.

My name is Everleigh Rose Braxton, and I love Sherlock Holmes. He was the beginning and the end of everything.

* * *

_A/N: This story has been floating in my brain for so long, I had to bring it to life. I've got so many snippets of this written I do hope I can wind them all together into a lovely story for you all. As you can tell it takes place pre Reichenbach Fall. This one will take time for updates, this story is my baby and every word has to be perfect. There will be a_ _**tumblr** _ _for this story once we get going! Photo/Gif sets of Ev and Sherlock, previews of upcoming chapters, playlists, stuff like that so I hope you'll give that a follow! Lastly, I am American, but I want this story to be to true to England as possible, so if I mess something up please please correct me! Thank you 3_

 


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view- until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.

-To Kill a Mockingbird

* * *

The rain was coming down in sheets as Dr. Everleigh Braxton walked from the parking garage to the Emergency Department of St Bartholomew's Hospital in London. It was her first day on the new job and her stomach was doing flips inside her abdomen as her body trembled, which was not being caused by the cold. The rain cooled her burning cheeks as she stepped closer and closer to the double sliding doors, her anxiety building. Change frightened her more so than she thought it should. Sure everyone feared change, but to her it felt like putting her head straight on the chopping block and waiting for the axe to come down. Impending doom was the easiest way to sum it up. She'd failed at almost everything in her life, why was this going to be any different? Every perfect opportunity that had been tossed her way always ended badly, so when she had received the call she got the job at the one and only St. Bart's, her excitement quickly changed to dread. How long until this was stolen from her too? Everything else had been.

The doors slid open and Everleigh welcomed the warm, dry air that blew out from the building, disheveling her short blond hair. People bustled by her, completely unaware of her presence, only seeing what was directly in front of them. But that was the way of the world. It was always easier to only see with your eyes straight forward, the real challenge was taking the time discover, to take off the blinders and look around. Ev had learned this the hard way. So much of her life had been missed, so many memories that could have been made were never seen, a haunting regret left in their place.

She made her way to the locker rooms eager to put her mind to use at work rather then the senseless reminiscing it was torturing her with at the moment. Swiftly changing from her jeans and sweater into her scrubs, dark blue and embroidered above the left breast pocket: Dr Everleigh Braxton, M.D. She'd been out of medical school for a almost a year now but seeing those words written never seemed to get old. Through the years she'd sacrificed, lost, feared, yet all of it was worth it in the end. It was her life's greatest accomplishment, only accomplishment really, one of the few things she still had to cherish and hold dear in her heart. It had taken 8 years for her to get to where she was standing in that moment, as she let that feeling settle in as a welcomed sense of peace took her over. There was one thing she knew for certain, she was a good doctor, it didn't matter that she'd failed at every other venture she had attempted, this was the one she succeeded, excelled at and she'd be damned if anything made her believe otherwise, even herself.

With a deep breath she pushed open the door leading to the Emergency Department, wrapping her stethoscope around the back of her neck and securing a pen in her pocket, ready to face the day ahead.

The ER was large and spacious, 12 curtained off sections, 6 on each side with a block of 8 private rooms between them. At the front of the department was central command, as she liked to call it. A large 10-foot long desk with 4 computers lining it, medical admin techs manning the phones and main computer, the medical and EMS technicians seated in chairs and standing against the walls behind it. Everleigh walked over to the desk, the butterflies returning to her stomach as she eyed the group of people, all laughing and joking with one another. It was always hard to be the new person in an already established group. Would they accept her, or cast her out to the side? Everleigh had experienced both in the past, finding each to have it's own pros and cons. Being accepted brought a sense of comfort where friends would be made, fun would be had, but that lead to the possibilities of jealousy and betrayal. Being cast out immediately would make working slightly awkward, but run the agonizing possibilities of option one out the door. That was the safer option, she thought. It was a cynical outlook on life, but the view had been planted by the seeds of deceit of friends of the past, causing Everleigh to slightly hope they would just leave her be.

She gave the admin tech a small smile as she walked up to the front of the desk. The girl warmly smiled back, standing up to shake hands with Ev.

"You must be Dr. Braxton! Hello! I'm Audrey!" the girl greeted excitedly as Ev shook the girls hand.

"Yes, hello. Lovely to meet you," Everleigh replied weakly, thinking to herself what a terrible impression she must be making, talking like a scared little child.

"I'll go and get Dr. Edwards, she'll let you know everything you could need to know!"

"Thank you."

Everleigh watched the girl scurry off, laughing softly to herself at the girls enthusiasm and vigor. The other people behind the desk were all smiling warmly at her, waiting for the chance to introduce themselves. Audrey returned moments later with a second woman in tow. The woman was probably in her mid to late 40's; chin length black hair and green eyes. She was short and thin, her glasses sitting low on a slender nose. Her features were soft and welcoming, she smiled when she saw Everleigh, putting the butterflies to rest at last.

"Hello Dr Braxton, welcome!" Dr. Edwards greeted, shaking Everleigh's hand just as Audrey had.

"Hello, please call me Everleigh, or Ev," Everleigh responded with a smile.

"And you can call me Nora. It'll be just you and I on for another 3 hours, and then we'll get the other two doctors in. I know you've gotten the tour and done all the paperwork and training so I'm sure you're eager to work. You'll take beds 1-10 I'll take 11-15 and A-E. If you need anything don't hesitate to ask! Your technicians will be Sam and Lisa. Sam! Lisa! Come over here and introduce yourselves!"

A young man and woman came jogging over and introduced themselves in the same fashion as the other two, lively and happy. Everleigh relaxed more and more as the day went on, her peers welcoming her immediately onto their team. The creeping fears still lingered in the back of her mind, but by this point the only option was to deal with everything as it came. Everleigh was not the spontaneous type, for every action she needed to know the reaction, the consequence. She wanted her fate to be in her own hands, never someone else's. Not again.

* * *

Everleigh sat behind the desk in the ER; it was her third day on the job, her last before a day off. The day was uneventful, just people with the common cold, coughs and sore backs. She'd gotten to know the staff quite well over the past 3 days. She learned that her technicians, Sam and Lisa, would be on the same rotation as her, as would Dr. Edwards. This brought an overwhelming sense of comfort to Everleigh, knowing she would always be around the same people. They would get to know the other's quirks, tricks and preferences, which always made the job easier.

Sam was a bright young man, trying his best to save money to attend a school for the arts. He had a passion for acting, participating in many local plays. He was handsome, wide-eyed, excited about what the future held for him and Everleigh shared in that excitement with him. She promised to go see him in his future plays, even ran lines with him in their down time. He was a happy bubble of energy, his smile was infectious and Everleigh enjoyed having him around.

Lisa was the same age as Everleigh, 28, a mother of two, happy in the career choice she had picked. Her dark hair was always neatly styled in a braid that reached the middle of her back. She enjoyed her work at the hospital, her schedule made it so she had more time to spend with her children. Her husband worked steadily at the brewery down the road. She talked so fondly of him, her eyes lit up as soon as his name passed her lips. Everleigh remembered a time when she would speak a name and it felt as if her heart was going to burst with excitement. Now, the name caused unease in the pit of her stomach and stirred the untapped river of ire she kept so neatly dammed at the back of her mind. Ev did not feel jealousy as Lisa talked about her wedding, children and family, only sadness and fear. Sadness, for these were all things she hoped for, a loving husband, little children running around, even the thoughts of sitting idly on the couch drinking a glass of wine while watching children's shows before their bedtime made her heart skip a beat. She felt fear for herself and for Lisa. Fear that she would die old and alone, unable to find a soul to share a life with. For Lisa, she feared her life would be ripped away from her, leaving her an empty shell of the woman she once was. An empty shell like Everleigh knew she had become.

Everleigh's thoughts were cut short as the doors from the ambulance bay flew open, EMS techs rushing a man strapped to the gurney in from the rain. Everleigh leapt up and ran to Bed 1, the destination for all trauma patients. Sam and Lisa jumped with her, along with every other pair of idle hands in the section.

The man was 26, suffering from multiple gun shot wounds to the chest and abdomen. His breathing was labored even on oxygen and his blood pressure was dropping. Everleigh began barking out her orders as she assessed the damage before her. She'd done simulations so many times in school and assisted during her residency, but this was so much different. Fear guided her through her motions, not skill or knowledge, fear; fear that this mans life was dangling on a snapping rope in front of her eyes, and she was holding the knife cutting it. Her words started becoming frantic as his condition worsened, this man was going to die if she didn't buck up and do her job. Everyone around her was moving expertly around her, each knowing exactly what needed to be done, except for her. Her brain became a confused cloud of choices, none of them and all of them seeming to be the right thing to do.

When the erratic beeping of his heart went flat, her mind broke. She called for the defibrillator, ordering the first charge. She placed the paddles on the man's chest, yelled clear and sent the first wave of electricity to his silent heart, her actions fueled by adrenaline, her body going through the motions she had practiced so many times. As the flat line still blared through the room she ordered 4 more times for the charge to be increased, but there was no effect. Finally, feeling the defeat roll through her, she called the time of death at 1753, ripping her blood soaked gloves off and throwing them to the ground.

The room was heavy with sadness as the monitors were turned off, leaving the group in an unsettling silence. Everleigh felt a hand place softly onto her shoulder in reassurance, but it made no difference. The burden of guilt and failure soaked its way into every crevice of her soul. She had failed and now a man was dead. A son, brother, husband, friend, people were going to suffer because of her failure. Her chest hurt as her heart beat heavily, her eyes burned as the tears fought to escape.

"It's ok Ev, there was nothing more you could have done," she heard Nora whisper from beside her.

"If it had been any other doctor in there, he would have lived," Ev confessed, feeling as if an anvil had just been dropped onto her chest as the words escaped.

"No, you did what any of us would have done. You can't put this on yourself, you'll never make it."

"It's all my fault."

"You did your best-"

"Well my best wasn't good enough!"

Ev let the reality of those words sink in. She wasn't good enough, just like she hadn't been a good enough daughter, girlfriend, fiancée. She was never good enough. Every precious thing that had been given to her she had lost, and now this man's life was on her conscience. As she replayed the last 20 minutes through her head she saw all of the errors she'd made, mistakes that had slipped by, all from her lack of skill, knowledge and control. She'd been confident in her abilities until that moment, when everything she knew was taken control by her fears.

Excusing herself from the scene after the sheet had been draped over the man's body and face and he'd been wheeled away, she traveled quickly from the department and let her feet carry her through the halls, oblivious to where she was going, it didn't matter, just so long as it was far away from there; far away from her failure. She couldn't bear to face her colleagues, their judgment or their poor attempts to take the blame from her shoulders, where it belonged. Finally, when she knew she had traveled far enough away from the bustle of the hospital she let the tears fall. She hoped that no one heard her sobs echoing through the empty halls as she choked for air. The word failure echoed through her mind in her own voice, and the voice of every other person she'd fallen short for. She saw their faces blur past the blackness of the back of her eyelids, ending with the young John Doe. He stared menacingly at her, unable to speak as he choked on his own blood. But he didn't need to speak, his eyes spoke his emotions, she saw the fear, betrayal and loathing in his hard steely gaze.

As she regained what was left of her composure she looked up and saw where her deceptive legs had carried her, she was outside the morgue. Of course this was where her self-loathing subconscious would take her. She turned to leave that place, go home and drown her sorrows in wine, cigarettes and sleep. She walked quickly down the hall and turned the corner from which she had come, running straight into a very solid blockade. She looked up and saw a man. Tall, his dark hair falling in curls around his face, his gray eyes reading right down to her very soul. He was a thin, with high cheekbones and acute facial features, she couldn't help but think he was very handsome, in a distinguished, old-fashioned sort of way. He was clothed in a long black coat, a blue scarf wrapped neatly around his neck, black trousers and black shoes. He said nothing, but his eyes darted over her entire form, as if he was taking in every minute detail of her. She wiped her eyes quickly, a useless attempt to hide her tears knowing he'd already seen them.

"I'm-I'm sorry, excuse me," she stammered, averting her gaze to the floor.

"You shouldn't cry for the dead, Dr. Braxton. Only the living," he replied in a deep, cool voice.

She looked at him, shocked. How did he know about her dead patient? Had he been there? No, she would have remembered that face, those eyes. Was he a relative of the man's? Probably not, he didn't seem at all upset; he was far too collected for someone who had just lost a dear one. What was he doing near the morgue? He certainly wasn't dressed like a hospital employee.

"How, did you know?" she questioned softly, mostly to herself, but he had heard.

"I know, a lot of things Doctor," he responded confidently.

"Who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

_A/N: Ahh I'm going to end it here! I hope you all don't mind that this chapter was so very Sherlock-less, but I wanted to start to play out Everleigh's character more. I hope you all liked it! Please review! If you liked it, hated it, want something different. Anything! It's all motivating and helpful!_

_I made the tumblr for our dear Everleigh and Sherlock, it's a little dead right now but it'll liven up soon! It's .com, follow if you'd like!_

Thank you for reading!

 


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

-The Great Gatsby

* * *

Everleigh looked again at the man in front of her, Sherlock Holmes he'd called himself. Sort of an odd name, she thought, and what had he meant, he knew a lot of things? She opened her mouth to speak, but the words didn't seem right, they weren't forming coherent sentences and they didn't make sense. As thoughts flew quickly through her mind, each seeming to be the wrong thing to say, Sherlock Holmes' grey eyes smoldered down on her, flustering her further. His face remained placid as he awaited a response, Everleigh growing more and more agitated with each blink of his dark lashes. Who was this man and what was he doing to her? She'd been reduced to an inarticulate imbecile with one look and 20 words.

"I'm assuming by your lack of a response you're quite befuddled. Normal really, I get that a lot," he spoke quickly with an air of arrogance, turning his attention away from her.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a cell phone that was vibrating lightly in his hand. Everleigh watched as he gracefully glided away from her, stopping just far enough away to where she was out of earshot. Finally out of his steely gaze she regained her normal brain function and thankfully her ability to speak. There were two thoughts battling each other in her mind as she stared at the man in his sweeping dark coat; one was that she should leave immediately, these emotions were dangerous and something about him made her subconscious uneasy, two, she wanted to know more about him, know whatever things he claimed he had knowledge of and she hadn't felt like this in so long, although dangerous it may be, it was also reassuring. Reassuring that maybe she wasn't quite as empty as she thought she was, a heart did still beat in her chest and at this moment, as she gawked at a head of messy dark curls, it was beating very quickly.

Her thoughts were quickly banished as she watched Sherlock place his phone back into his pocket and head into the morgue without so much as a second glance at her. And she felt disappointed. She fought back the little voice in her head that told her to follow him and berate him with the questions that now flooded her mind, she heard it screaming in protest as she walked further and further from the door, further and further away from the answers she desired. The image of those piercing grey eyes flashed with each blink of her own, both haunting and enchanting.

* * *

Sherlock walked quickly into the morgue, John was irritating, calling to complain about forgetting to pick up milk. Didn't he know there were far more important things for Sherlock to put his mind to? Like discovering if a wound inflicted after death clotted the same way as one inflicted prior. Picking up milk was almost as trivial as knowledge of the solar system. He'd never live that one down. John just didn't understand that pointless facts like the Earth going round the sun had no place in a mind such as his, it did him no good. It was so easy not being Sherlock Holmes, he was sure of it.

The newly deceased bodies were laid out onto tables before him, Molly Hooper was always good about arranging things just like he preferred them to be. Starting on the left with the one who had died yesterday, Sherlock took a small pocket knife out and sliced a clean 3 inch gash into the mans side, watching the congealing blood ooze slowly from the wound. He worked his way through the other 4, finishing at a young man of 26 with multiple gun shot wounds. Sherlock smirked coyly to himself as he read the toe tag, he was right. He was always right. Dr. Everleigh Braxton had signed off on the tag, citing his death no more than an hour ago. So this was the reason the woman cried, if only she had a brain half as functioning as his she would have known there were no reasons to weep for this man. The gun powder residue on his right hand indicated there had been another victim, or intended victim, the tattoo on his left hand was that of a popular gang around London, the bruises on his side were most likely inflicted by whomever he was trying to rob, probably with a baseball bat and the light scarring of his wrists proved that he'd been arrested, and tried resisting, on many occasions. It was so apparently obvious, why didn't people just think and observe? Instead they chose to act according to their flawed moral compasses and hearts, which would get them nowhere. Facts and knowledge would always outweigh emotion, what went on in those people's funny little brains was the only thing Sherlock knew he would never understand.

"Molly!" Sherlock screamed as he took one last glance at each wound on the 5 bodies, jotting down his final findings in a small notepad.

"Yes Sherlock?" Molly answered excitedly, running from whatever part of the lab she'd been hiding in.

"I'm all finished. Thank you."

The woman nodded sadly as he brushed passed her, wrapping his scarf back around his neck. He would never understand that girl, but the effects he seemed to have over her definitely came in handy when he needed anything in the hospital, no matter how illegal it was. He felt a slight pity for her as he remembered all the awful things he'd said to her, the rude remarks and all the times he'd made her feel worthless or embarrassed. But he was who he was, and people either accepted that or they didn't, he felt no need to change, for anyone, especially not a woman. Women were cruel, manipulative creatures, so many crimes he'd investigated and the center point for them all, a woman. Irene Adler came to mind immediately. She'd drugged him, teased him and tried to make him feel inferior to her, which of course he proved to be wrong. And the reason for all her plans being ruined, years of manipulation thrown away: Love. The thought made Sherlock laugh to himself as he walked through the halls of the hospital; no one had, or ever would, get the upper hand on Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Everleigh walked out into the cool London air. The sun was setting, making the world around her glow in the waning light. A truly beautiful ending to a terrible day, it seemed almost poetic. With shaky hands Everleigh pulled out a pack of cigarette's and a lighter from her black bag, setting a small blaze to the end. Breathing in deep she took the smoke into her lungs, letting the nicotine flow through her and calm her dizzying emotions. She felt as if her body and mind had been thrown in every direction today; happy, sad, angry, disappointed and shocked just to name a few. There was only so much a person could handle and today had been far too much. These next two days would be spent relaxing, drinking wine and catching up on mindless TV shows, the perfect remedy for any broken heart.

"May I have one of those?" a deep baritone sounded from behind her, she recognized that voice.

Sherlock Holmes stood no more than a foot behind her, his lips drawn into a tight line as he stared longingly at the half smoked cigarette in her hand. Everleigh felt the lump reforming in her throat as she watched his curls blow around his face in the light breeze. A chink in his armor she thought as she watched his cheek twitching from the tension he obviously felt. Knowing he was just as uncomfortable in that moment as she was, whether it was for an entirely different reason or not, gave her the courage she needed. She turned her brown eyes to meet his grey, the unease creeping back into her heart as she slowly held her hand out to give him what he so desired.

"When you said you know, a lot of things, what did you mean?" she asked, mustering as much confidence into her voice as she could.

"Exactly as it sounded," he responded before taking a long drag, closing his eyes and turning his face up to the sky, enjoying every sensation as the smoke coursed through him.

"A lot of things about what exactly?"

"Everything."

"What do you know about me then?"

"You're a new doctor here, working in the Emergency Department, but this isn't your first job, you've held others before this one working somewhere else in London, a small clinic or office. You suffer from anxiety and insomnia, most likely caused by something from your past that you wish you could forget but cannot. Which I'm assuming is a relationship gone badly as you find yourself single at this moment. He left you for another woman that you found him with, a friend or coworker. You live in a nice flat in the upper parts of London alone, not even a cat to keep you company. Tell me how am I doing so far? What did I get wrong? I always get one thing wrong."

She stared in horror as he quickly listed off the last two years of her life as if it had been written on her forehead. The corner of his mouth curled up into a smirk as he watched her expression change from confident, to shock, as he basked in his own glory. It was too easy. She felt her bottom lip begin to quiver as the memories she kept neatly packed away flooded her mind, jolted loose by a man she'd only just met. If he knew that much about her from a single look, the façade she so carefully played out couldn't be as effective as she'd been led on to believe it was. How much did everyone else know, how much else could they see play out in her eyes?

"How," she whispered, knowing he would hear her.

"Your scrubs are newly embroidered, not one string out of place, which means they've never been washed or worn before. You've held other jobs in the city which has given you enough money to buy a car, I know this because your shoes while they are older than the rest of your uniform, are in relatively good condition which means you don't have to walk around the city trying to hail a cab and the only places that have parking for tenants are the flats in the upper parts of London, which as a doctor you can afford. You have dark circles under your eyes, you don't sleep, haunted by the ghosts of the past, perhaps you find sleeping alone difficult. You're last boyfriend, no, fiancé, was cheating with a friend or coworker and you found them, causing the immediate end of your relationship, but it wasn't your decision. He left you, for the other woman. You would have left London had you been the one to choose to leave him, typical behavior for a woman scorned, but you're still here, so he left you. Your nails are bitten down to the quick and you jump at the slightest of sounds, hence you suffer from anxiety. Now, what did I get wrong?" he listed, staring at her through his thick brows.

"It was my cousin. He was sleeping with my cousin."

"Ah, cousin. There's always one thing."

Her eyes fell to the ground as she spoke the words. The ultimate betrayal, acted out by none other than her cousin Hannah. Their grandparents had raised the both of them, growing up as practically sisters their entire lives, and she'd found her in bed with her fiancé, Tom a year ago, three weeks before their wedding. He had also guessed correctly that it was Tom that decided to leave her, choosing instead to live with Hannah in Manchester. Everleigh had wanted nothing more then to work it out, such a naïve thought, she had loved him, or she thought she had. Looking back, the only thing that urged her to try and mend what had been long broken was to avoid the embarrassment of canceling her wedding, to have to broadcast her failure to her family and friends. A little piece of her was thankful he decided to leave, saving her from a lifetime of heartache and sadness. But that was exactly what she had now; nothing had changed, except that the place beside her in bed was empty. Which would have been worse, living a beautifully orchestrated lie, or the agonizing truth? It all felt the same to her.

"Well, this has been fun, but I must be going. Have to get milk," Sherlock said as he stepped to the curb, searching the street for a cab as he took the last drag of his cigarette.

Everleigh kept her eyes firmly placed on the sidewalk; she couldn't bear to look him in the eyes. He'd discovered almost every one of the skeletons in her closest, and she only knew his name. She was fighting every urge to cry, only because she didn't want him to see her, see the effect his words had caused. It would only bring him a higher sense of pride, she thought. There was something strange about Sherlock Holmes, strange yet alluring. He'd just blurted out her deepest darkest secrets, yet it only intrigued her more about the man. He was obviously very observant and very intelligent, maybe too much so.

"What exactly is it that you do, Mr. Holmes?" she found the voice to ask him.

"Please, Sherlock. I'm a consulting detective, the only one in the world. I invented the job," he responded as a cab pulled up to the curb, opening the door he added "Good evening Doctor, I'm sure we'll meet again."

The cab pulled off the curb and Everleigh watched as it drove away, the silhouette of Sherlock Holmes' head outlined by the setting sun. Stomping out her cigarette she turned towards the parking garage to begin her journey home.

* * *

_So this is a little shorter than I planned, but the other half is practically another chapter so I split it. I hope you guys like this one, probably not as good as the first chapter but it gets much better! Beginning stories is hard haha, I want to get to the middle! I realized the_ _**tumblr** _ _address got deleted in the last one, but it's_ **_Everleigh-Rose_ ** _. The plan is to have this story out every Saturday._

_Please read/review/follow/favorite I love it all!_

_ _


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"I am intrigued by the smile upon your face, and the sadness within your eyes."

-Jeremy Aldana

* * *

Darkness had fallen over London as Everleigh pulled her keys from her bag and unlocked her front door. Her flat was quaint and homey, the perfect size for one person to live comfortably. She set her belongings on a small table in her entrance hallway before turning to her kitchen. The kitchen was large, light oak cabinets lined the eggshell walls and a small two-person bar table was pushed against the far wall with two stools tucked neatly underneath it. Everleigh walked to the white countertops and hung her head in defeat. Set before her was her white porcelain teapot and a box of her favorite evening tea, hibiscus. In the cabinets above her were her wine glasses, given to her by her grandmother, the half full wine rack just inches to her right.

The events of the day flew past her in a blur; her head was heavy on her shoulders from the weight of the past 12 hours and thanks to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the grey clouds of her past were now setting in for the evening. Haunting, sinister and insidious these memories were, throwing more dynamite onto her already crumbling inner foundations. With a sigh she opened the cabinet and grabbed one of the large wine glasses, running her finger over the rim before sliding a bottle of pinot noir carefully out of the wooden wine rack. She was more than apt at removing the cork from the bottle, a skill mastered over the past few darkened years and nothing she was proud of. Her phone rang suddenly, breaking her from her trance. She pulled the small black piece from her pocket and looked at the caller ID. Blocked. Running through every possibility of who would be calling her from a blocked number, she cast the vibrating nuisance off onto her counter, unable to think of one person in the world she would want to talk to right now, whether she knew them or not.

She retreated slowly to the living area, taking the entire bottle of wine and her glass with her. The living area was rather small; a three seating dark blue couch faced a small TV atop a cherry wood stand. Scattered paintings and black and white photographs decorated the walls and a few bookshelves filled out the room, lined with Everleigh's schoolbooks, poetry and other novels. The focal point of the room was a black baby grand piano in the right corner. Ev sighed sadly as she took in it's dusty appearance. It had been close to a year since she'd even sat down to play, the thought of playing alone and for herself brought her more sadness than the joy of playing could bring. She'd been a skilled pianist since she had started playing at the age of six, her grandmother refused to let her give it up as she grew after recognizing her granddaughter's amazing prowess at the keyed instrument. She had participated in many piano recitals, even earning a scholarship to a very prestigious art academy. At times Ev regretted not accepting it, choosing instead to go to medical school. Her grandmother had tried to persuade Ev to take the scholarship, become a great concert pianist and maybe even write a song or two, but Everleigh's inherent longing to finally make a difference had won over. Ev looked at the music stand and saw her scribbled piles of manuscript paper containing a piece she had been working on before everything had fallen apart. Every evening she would tell herself she would work on it, even for an hour, but everyday came another excuse. Defeated, Ev left the room and headed to her bedroom.

Her bedroom was neatly decorated in white furniture and random knickknacks from her travels. Her bed was made with a quilt, made by her grandmother, that she'd had for as long as she could remember. Never in her heart would she find the courage to get rid of it. She set her bottle of wine down on the night table beside her favorite lamp. The turquoise shade was decorated with simple images of a peacock feather and set atop a base of a bronze peacock perched near the trunk of tree. She had received it as a gift from her father when she was eleven, just two years before he'd walked out on her forever, leaving a gaping hole in his place. She went quickly into the bathroom and turned her shower to as hot as she could bear to wash the troubles of the day down the drain. The hot water soothed her aching muscles as the methodical pattering of the water hitting the tub quieted her mind, giving her the greatest sense of peace she had experienced all day. With the droplets fell her sorrows, troubles and failures, leaving her a clean slate for at least a little while.

Finally, at 10:45 Everleigh laid down into bed, pouring her first of many glasses of wine and turned on her television, falling asleep hours later to the murmur of black and white reruns.

* * *

Everleigh awoke in the early hours of the gasping for air and sweat pouring from her body. The same nightmare plagued her night after night, always the emptiness, always the endless longing. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes as she looked around her room, ensuring she was finally awake, no longer in the infinite darkness. Feeling her heart pounding in her chest told her what she was experiencing was real, the search was over, at least for now.

She looked over at the clock, 6:20 AM, which counted out to, just less than four hours of sleep. 'You have dark circles under your eyes, you don't sleep', the words of the "worlds of the world's only consulting detective" sounded through her mind. She didn't sleep, never for more than four hours, except the exceptionally rare occasion she got five. No medications, alcohol or meditative activities were ever able to provide her relief from her debilitating ailment, making each day harder then the last. 'Haunted by the ghosts of the past' Sherlock's voice echoed again, she wasn't sure these could be considered ghosts anymore, demons was more like it. Keeping her from sleep, from the activities she loved, from making friends, yes, these were much more injurious than ghosts. The things she kept hidden from the world were enough to write a book, not that anyone would read it. Angry from her inability to sleep any longer, she threw herself out of bed and readied for the day ahead. Go get tea, maybe some breakfast, go to the market, then come home and sit on her couch and watch television, maybe read a little of her book, sleep, wake up then repeat.

She'd made her way to the kitchen to put a pot of tea on and saw her cast off phone lying skewed on the counter. She checked and saw she had eleven missed calls, all from a blocked number. No voicemails or text messages. Each call was spaced exactly 13 minutes apart before they had finally given up. She cleared the history quickly from her phone, feeling an awful unease creep its way into her psyche.

Everleigh remembered a small little café she'd passed on her way into work and decided to make that her destination for breakfast that morning. She stepped inside, the bell on the door chiming happily as the door swung open, the smiles of the small staff greeting her with enthusiasm. Being around large groups of strangers always set a small restlessness into the pit of Everleigh's stomach. She knew she shouldn't, but she consistently concerned herself with what everyone was thinking about her. Not out of vanity, but out of embarrassment. Would they see the circles under her eyes, her nails bitten down to the quick, what would they assume about her from the way she talked, the way her voice tended to crack in nervousness? Even ordering a tea and muffin at the counter set the butterflies in her stomach to go off, it truly was a terrible way to live.

She found a small table in a far corner of the room to enjoy her breakfast, pulling her book of John Keats' poems out of her bag. Turning through the well-worn pages she came to one of her favorites in the book 'La Belle Dame sans Merci'.

_I met a lady on the meads,_

_Full beautiful-a faery's child,_

_Her hair was long, her foot was light_

_And her eyes were wild._

"Keats. Interesting choice," a deep voice sounded from beside her, "In here John!"

Everleigh looked up fearfully from the tattered pages and saw the one person in the world she never wanted to see again, yet at the same time yearned for any moment spent in his mesmerizing presence. Sherlock Holmes stood beside her table, removing his gloves from his long, slender fingers carefully. She hadn't even remembered hearing him walk up, and there he was no more than a foot away from her. The awful frog leapt back into her throat as his grey eyes turned to her, staring straight to her broken core.

"Ode to a Grecian Urn," he said, slightly enjoying watching the waves of emotions dance across her features.

"Wh-what?" Everleigh stammered, snapping the book closed.

"It's one of your favorites."

"How-"

"You've rabbit eared the page repeatedly, the corner sticks out awkwardly against the others."

She looked at him, speechless and shocked. The corner of his mouth pulled up into a small smirk at her slack jawed look, it never got old, seeing the awe people felt when he only pointed out the obvious. He studied her closely again, catching the nervousness in her jolted movements, the dark circles under her eyes were more pronounced, the corners of her eyes turned down in sadness. There was an air of mystery about her still; he couldn't place his finger on what it was. The question itched at one of the walls in his mind, what was this woman hiding?

"Oh, hello, who's this?" John Watson chimed in cheerily, breaking Sherlock of his concentration.

"I'm Everleigh," Ev greeted with a small smile, standing to shake the smaller mans hand.

He was shorter than Sherlock, with blond hair and a welcoming face. He shook her hand lightly and Ev couldn't help but feel slightly more at ease in his presence. Sherlock seemed to back off when his friend had come to join them, giving Ev a slightly larger peace of mind.

"Ah hello, I'm John. Do you two, uh, know each other?" he asked skeptically, pointing his finger between the two of them.

"We met yesterday, at St Bart's."

"Ah, are you a doctor there?"

"Yes, just started on Monday."

"Fantastic! I trained at St. Bart's, was an Army doctor for awhile."

Everleigh fell into easy conversation with John, they talked about work, different things they'd seen and treated, and all while Sherlock looked on quite unhappily, and bored. The tea came and went, numerous cups of it, and Sherlock wasn't sure how much more of this nonsensical prattling he could take. There was a case to be investigating, granted he had next to no evidence to go on, but there was more, he just had to  _find_ it, and sitting here listening to John talking aimlessly with a rambling blonde woman wasn't getting him anywhere.

"So how did you meet Sherlock?" John asked, causing Everleigh to clam up, and Sherlock to tune back into the conversation.

"Um, I just, ran into him. Quite literally actually," Ev answered as she grabbed at her now cold cup of tea, a hint of panic in her voice.

"Careful doctor, your vulnerability is showing," Sherlock interjected, noticing the change in her voice, her posture and mechanisms at his partner's question.

Both of their heads snapped up to stare at Sherlock, who hadn't even bothered to turn his attention towards them. Everleigh felt herself retreating back into her shell. This man was overly perceptive; it was almost an invasion of privacy. She just wanted to shout at him, tell him to leave her alone and stop doing whatever is was he was doing. But she didn't. Was it because she was too afraid to, or because deep down she didn't want him to stop? He read her like a book, and she knew he did this with everyone, she wasn't anyone special, but he knew there wasn't something quite right about her and yet he hadn't treated her any differently. He didn't treat her like some broken china doll, he treated her like he did everyone else, and that was something Everleigh wasn't used to. When most people uncovered her unsavory past they coddled her, watched their every move and word, afraid to break her further. But Sherlock Holmes knew everything, by one look, and he didn't coddle her, and she had liked that.

"Well, I should probably get going, thank you John, this was lovely," Ev announced as she stood up, John rising with her.

"Yes it was, would you like to get dinner sometime?" John asked throwing Ev off and earning a scoff from Sherlock who was still sitting in his chair, his head leaned back, eyes closed.

"Um, sure. I think that would be nice. Sherlock you're welcome to come as well."

She wasn't sure what possessed her to add that last part, but felt a slight jolt to her stomach as he slowly opened his eyes and lifted his head to look at her. Mostly she thought it was because she didn't want it to come across to John that it would be a date. He was a wonderful man, charming and kind, but she enjoyed his company too much to risk putting it on the line. She didn't feel any attraction to him and if she'd let him on to believe so she knew she'd never see him again. John laughed a little to himself at her invitation, turning his attention to the slender man behind him, looking forward to his response to her offer.

"I don't eat while I'm on case," Sherlock responded coolly, after watching her features change from relaxed to tense.

"That's not very-" she began, but was quickly cut off.

"I tell him all the time, he doesn't listen," John vented, shaking his head in annoyance.

"Ah, well, then I suppose I will see  _you_ later then John."

"Yes, I'll call you."

John gestured to his phone that she had placed her number into during their conversation. She bade the two men goodbye and walked outside into the morning air. Sherlock was becoming a more and more confusing figure in her mind, never in her life had she loathed and admired someone quite as much as she did him. She couldn't figure what about him was so alluring to her, his intelligence, his looks, his ability to observe and perceive, or his apparent disregard for feelings and emotions. One thing she knew for certain, those grey eyes would haunt her until the next time she saw them again.

John turned angrily to the dark haired man sitting behind him, off in his mind palace again no doubt. He needed to stop bringing him out in public, the world just wasn't ready for the cold, unforgiving apathy of Sherlock Holmes, not all of it anyway.

"Why do you have to be so rude?" John finally broke the silence that Sherlock had allowed to awkwardly set in.

"Rude? I may be veracious John, but never rude," Sherlock answered, slightly offended at John's lack of observatory skills, "Now, are you angry because I upset a woman, or because I upset a woman that you want to sleep with?"

There were few times when Sherlock left John speechless, this was one of them. And looking over at the smug look on Sherlock's face made John even more flustered. The way his hands were steepled in front of his slightly smirking lips, amusement flickering in his cold grey eyes. He wanted to punch him in the face, yes, right in the jaw, he'd done it once before and remembered the gratification he felt.

"That woman is hiding something," Sherlock thought out loud, his expression immediately changing to determination, "And I plan to find out what."

* * *

_A/N I powered through this one! So it may be slightly lacking but I hope not. Had to go into work today, boo, so I didn't have as much time to work on it as I'd hoped._

_Please Review/Favorite/Follow, I'll love you forever! Don't forget the tumblr for the story is: Everleigh-Rose. I've been slowly making little graphics and things for when the story really gets going, which will be around chapter 5/6 as of right now! My personal blog is clueing-with-benedict, in case anyone wanted to follow, it's all Supernatural and Sherlock/Benedict haha._

_Review pretty please and give me wonderful words to look forward to!_


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"All the hardest, coldest people you meet were once as soft as water. And that's the tragedy of living."

* * *

"Table for two please," John stated merrily to a very bored looking redheaded hostess playing with her hair absentmindedly.

It had taken him a few days, but John had finally called inviting Everleigh out to dinner after her shift at the hospital. He had chosen a small, quiet bistro not far from the flat he shared with the unbearable Sherlock Holmes. The small tables were decorated with red table clothes and centerpieces of different glass votive candleholders circled by an array of silk flowers. The room was dimly lit from rustic sconces on the walls, which were alongside different paintings and photographs of scenery from London. It was a lovely place, and as an added bonus, wasn't very crowded. The hostess led the pair to a table in the corner by a large window facing the bustling street outside.

Before sitting down himself, John pulled Everleigh's chair out from the table so she could sit. So, chivalry was not dead, not yet anyway, she thought to herself. She looked outside to all the people walking by. Business men just leaving their offices, young couples walking hand in hand, children riding their bicycles up and down the gray pavement. Their lives were all progressing fluidly, moving with the ebb and flow of reality, whereas Everleigh felt as if she'd been stuck stagnant, congealing with algae, all forms of life finding it impossible to live; except the most stubborn of bacteria, the parasites, leeching on to every last living, breathing cell. It was all getting very tiresome. The sleepless nights, the endless longing, this is not what life was meant to be.

"So, how do you like working at St Bart's?" John asked as he perused the small one sheeted menu.

"Oh it's great. Never boring," Ev answered, "A little stressful, but I think that's how I'm  _supposed_  to feel."

"Sherlock told me about your patient a few days ago, sorry to hear about that. It's good to know at least he was a criminal."

"What?"

"He didn't tell you?"

"No."

"That's odd. He usually loves to show off."

A young waiter came by the table, jubilantly taking their drink orders and breaking the conversation at the exact point in which Everleigh least wanted to end it. Damn that Sherlock Holmes and his over penetrating mind. Did that insufferable man know  _everything_? Anger coursed through her, it would appear he knew more about her and her life than even she did. How anyone could stand to be in his presence for more than thirty seconds was a mystery to her. Except it wasn't, not entirely, for in the darkest hours of the night, as she tossed and turned, she had thought of him. She'd thought what he was like behind the mask, if he had one. Or maybe that was just exactly who he was: cold, apathetic, brilliant. He had no inhibitions, no regrets and no social etiquette. He was an enigma in a horrifically humdrum world and she breathed in his air of mystery with a baffling vigor. No matter how she tried to convince herself, she could not find herself to completely dislike the man, or lose her curiosity in him.

"What's he like? Sherlock?" she finally asked, her thirst for any information on him winning out.

"Sherlock? Um, exactly as he seems," John answered after a long pause, "He is no different at home than he is, out here."

"He's a rather interesting man."

"Interesting? Never heard him called that before. It's usually, annoying, psychopath, freak. Interesting is, nice to hear. He just takes some getting used to is all."

"He's very intelligent, hyper aware."

"You have no idea. He has a blog, The Science of Deduction. That's the best look inside his head there is. Such as how he 'deduces' which perfume a woman is wearing or the type of programmer a man is by his tie. Funny thing though, he didn't know the Earth went round the sun."

Ev and John simultaneously broke out into a fit of laughter. It was carefree and liberating. As she looked over at her new companion, a sliver of light forced it's way through the perpetual darkness, cracking the cold, dark exterior ever so slightly. She felt a new sense of happiness and ease in the presence of Dr John Watson. It had been a long time since she'd met someone who had such an impressionable way to them. Him and Sherlock were polar opposites; perhaps that was why they got along so well. John was the conscience and emotion to Sherlock's brain and intellect. It was reassuring to know Sherlock had someone keeping him in check because he needed it. Ev felt like the differences between right and wrong, good and bad, were all a gray area to Sherlock, probably not on purpose, that was just the way his mind worked.

The pair sat and drank wine, talking about working, past cases of John and Sherlock's, Everleigh's favorite being one of a murderous taxi driver. She'd felt a certain dread as John explained how Sherlock had almost taken a pill that was almost certainly poisonous. She'd imagined the scene as John retold the events, Sherlock's eyes darting quickly between two bottles and his captor's face, trying to read every minute detail, as he had done to her in the hospital. She thought of how his ego had almost gotten him killed and as she much as she wanted to say he would have been his own fault if he'd keeled over dead, she knew that if he had been wrong, Sherlock Holmes would have much rather been dead than admit he had been bested. She'd seen the man three times and she could already gather that simply from the way he talked and carried himself. So much pride, and well earned she considered as John continued his tales of Sherlock Holmes and his mysteries before a loud rapping on the window beside them interrupted the conversation.

"John! JOHN!" Sherlock yelled through the glass, slamming the side of his gloved fist repeatedly against the window.

"Oh for God's sake Sherlock, what?" John answered, looking around the restaurant embarrassed.

"There's a case John. Murder! We must go immediately."

"I'm in the middle of something."

"Murder, John, serial killer!"

John just shook his head, turning his attention away from his friend in the window, trying his best to ignore the incessant thudding of Sherlock's attempts to gain back his attention.

"Do you have to go? It's all right you know," Everleigh asked him with a small smile, knowing the answer to that already.

"No, he can wait. Or go alone even," John answered, trying to convince himself just as much as he was her.

"John," Sherlock's deep voice sounded from beside them, inside the building this time.

"Yes Sherlock?" John answered, locking his eyes on Everleigh trying his best to keep his cool.

"Are you coming?"

"I'm a little busy."  
"Yes I see that. What's her name again, Ellie?"

"Everleigh Sherlock, and since when do you forget names?"

"I don't remember things that aren't important, John. Murder,  _that's_  important. I have a taxi outside waiting."

John sighed, finally looking over to his friend, his face hard with defeat. He knew he had no choice, well, he did, but he would always choose to accompany Sherlock on his case, he had to be around to keep Sherlock, amicable and well behaved. It didn't always work but at least he'd know he tried. The last thing he needed was Sherlock going off on a rampage on Anderson or Donovan; those little scuffs never did end well, for those two anyway. With a little more force than he intended to use, John threw the napkin from his lap onto the table and stood up.

"I'm sorry Ev, I hope this won't dampen any possibilities of being able to do this in the future," John stated, the annoyance in his voice clearly audible, "And I apologize for Sherlock's lapse in memory about your name."

"Of course not," she answered back happily, "Murder is always important. I understand. I don't mind, Ellie is close enough, it's fine."

Sherlock looked over at her quizzically, their eyes meeting gray on brown. Whenever he looked at her the strangest sensations of both fear and relief set in. Deep down in her heart she wanted to get to know this strange man, learn his secrets and desires, see what treasure hid beneath the layers of ice and stone. But she knew he would never allow it. He was too proud and too long ruined. Had anyone ever shown him compassion, she wondered, or tried to get past the mask?

"Well good, I'll call you later then," John chimed in, breaking the awkward silence that had settled between the three.

Everleigh nodded, breaking her eyes free from Sherlock's steely gaze. She watched the two men as they left, the unease of loneliness creeping back in.

* * *

The hospital bustled with doctor's and nurses running back and forth between beds. A large group of people had been rushed to St Bart's after a suspected single murder had gone awry, landing several people injured. The story was faulty, each person having a slightly different spin, but the main facts remained the same. A pair of men were in an alley, they had appeared to be fighting, people had assumed it was just two drunk men getting rowdy. Slowly pedestrians started to form a group, watching the scuffle, ready to intervene if necessary, when a gun was pulled and one of the men shot dead. The murderer, in an attempt to clear any witnesses to his crime, emptied his remaining bullets into the crowd before running off, injuring six of them. Two of the injured had died on scene, the other four were being cared for in the Emergency Department, two of them in Everleigh's care. Both were in stable condition and resting peacefully, with their families at their sides.

The event had brought on the worst of Everleigh's anxieties. It made her realize how fragile lives truly were; you couldn't even walk on the streets without the possibility of being killed. The face of human nature was truly hideous, but she tried to keep her faith in those who had dedicated their lives to helping others. All she ever strived for was to make a difference in one person's life, help one person see the best in themselves and set along that path.

"Dr. Braxton, the patient in room 3 is asking to see you," Sam informed her as he jogged past, grabbing a chart for the next patient to be seen by her in the waiting area.

Everleigh took in the direction of the room. Room 3 housed a middle-aged woman who had been shot in the thigh, severing her femoral artery. Everleigh had been able to stop the bleeding fast enough to save her life and her limb. She would make a full recovery. Everleigh poked her head around the curtain slowly and greeted the woman with a smile before walking in. The woman was sitting upright, tears lolling slowly down her cheek.

"Mrs. Jones, what's the matter? Do you need anything?" Everleigh cooed, placing a reassuring hand on the woman's frail shoulder.

"Who was that man? He was so rude," Mrs. Jones sobbed, placing her hands over her face.

"What man?"

"In the black coat."

Everleigh stood up straight, knowing exactly whom she was talking about. How had he gotten in here? She jogged out of the room and to the room of her second patient to find Sherlock Holmes yelling at the poor man to focus. For all the other times she had found it difficult to speak in front of him, this time was different. He was interfering with her job and those under her care, giving her the confidence she needed.

"Sherlock!" she yelled, breaking his attention away from poor Mr. Jacobson.

"Yes?" he answered nonchalantly, looking at her with annoyance.

"You can't be here."

Sherlock scoffed at her, "I'm with the police."

"No, you're not. Now please leave."

Sherlock's face took on a venomous expression. He moved with reptilian coolness as he slid from the room, looking over his shoulder at her, signaling his desire to speak with her alone. Fear settled itself into her stomach as she followed him into an empty hallway. She wasn't sure what he was going to say, or do, and she desperately wished John would round the corner and save his friend from lashing out at her. His gray eyes held no signs of life as they bore down on her, the corner of his mouth turned into a small smirk as he watched her fear dance across her eyes.

"I need to talk to those people," he spat, his voice staying at a level volume.

"I'm sorry, I can't let you talk to them while they're in the hospital. They've gone through enough alread-"

"Yes and I need to talk to them before they forget it all. The facts will only stay truthful in their minds for a few hours before their fear and desire to be pitied and glorified embellish the stories. I need the  _facts_."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm trying to catch a  _serial killer_! Does that not mean anything to you? This will happen again and again until I solve this!"

In that moment, Everleigh saw a small piece of the Sherlock behind the wall. His face was passionate, angry and disappointed. He needed to solve this crime, not only for himself, but also for everyone else, for people's safety. As much as this was about him and his superior intellect, it was more about the people who died because of his failure to solve the mystery. He breathed heavily as he stared at her, his face frantic, the cool exterior long broken. In that moment, she realized she had never before admired a person as much as she did Sherlock Holmes. He didn't only aid the police to boast his superiority to them, although that was part of it; he did it to save lives. Everleigh's heart swelled with respect for this man and it deepened her desires to get to know him. She looked at his face, still frantic, still disappointed and she couldn't help the need she felt to make this easier him. This man was holding the weight of the world on his shoulders, with no one to help him carry the load. He was alone.

"All right, but I need to be there while you do it," she told him quietly; thankful his features were starting to relax.

"Fine," he responded curtly.

Sherlock brushed past her, the bottom of his long coat gently hitting her legs. She followed him at a safe distance, knowing he was still seething from their conversation. He waited at the door for her, holding it open so she could walk in first. If there was one thing she did not expect from Sherlock Holmes, it was any sort of manners, and she couldn't help but give him a small smile as she passed him.

"Hello Mr. Jacobson, I need you to answer this gentlemen's questions as well as you can, all right? He's trying to catch the man that did this to you. He's very smart and if anyone can do it, it's him. His name is Sherlock," Ev introduced the brooding man behind her to the small elderly man before her, "Be nice to him," she whispered over her shoulder to the dark haired detective.

Ev listened closely to Sherlock's conversation with her patient; he seemed to be behaving much better now that she was here. His voice stayed level, even if it was heavy with annoyance at the man's slow story telling, he refrained from yelling or getting angry. When he'd gotten as many facts as he could he turned and faced her once again, his lips curled into a large, confident smile.

"They always make mistakes," he said to her before quickly walking out of the room.

"Sherlock!" she called out, quickly leaving the room, running to catch up to him.

When she'd reached him she placed a hand gently on his upper arm to stop him, causing him to freeze and look over at her defensively. He looked down at her hand on his arm and she felt his lean muscles relax under the three layers of clothes he wore. He hadn't pulled away like they both thought he would, which kept her hand lingering longer than it should have. He had to be honest; the feeling of her small, warm hand on him had a calming effect on his ever-frenzied mind. He found himself focused on the feeling, the warmth, the smell of her, lavender essential oil perfume, and the way her eyes looked at him with both concern and admiration. He hadn't noticed before how her forehead wrinkled ever so softly and her lips slightly puckered when she worried, or how small of a woman she really was. He knew she was 5'6" and around 120 pounds, but that 120 pounds was not enough, she was thin, too thin; a product of the insomnia and anxiety no doubt.

"You need to eat more," he instructed, pulling his arm from her hypnotizing grasp.

"What?" she inquired, looking away from him embarrassed.

"You're too thin. Surely as a doctor you should know this."

"I suppose, yes."

Sherlock nodded once before turning and starting down the hall, speaking, "Thank you for your help this evening. Good night," over his shoulder

Everleigh was blasted with confusion at his strange exit. Her phone ringing in her pocket broke her train of thought as to what on Earth had just happened.

"Hello?" she answered.

"Ev, it's John. You haven't happened to have seen Sherlock recently, have you?" John asked, speaking very quickly, he was obviously very shaken up about something.

"Yes actually, he just left-"

"Thank you!"

John hung up the phone before she'd had the chance to say goodbye, only racking up more questions in her mind. What on Earth was going on?

* * *

 _A/N_ _Please follow, and review! No one reviews and it makes me very sad! And don't forget the tumblr is Everleigh-rose, I post all the updates there and soon there will be photos and gifsets once we get rolling. My personal blog if anyone at all is interested is clueing-with-benedict. Nothing exciting I promise._

 _Please Please Please review and make me super happy! If anyone has any ideas or anything they'd like to see make sure to let me know so I can see if I can add it in! Always open to suggestions!_


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

"Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know."

-Ernest Hemingway

* * *

He was so close; there was just one missing piece. Damn it Sherlock, think. Dead woman, hotel, dead man, hotel, dead man, alleyway, gunfire sprayed into a surrounding crowd, flee, dead woman, park and then, nothing. It had been two weeks since the last murder and then silence. This was agonizing. He was better than this. The facts were all aligned neatly into a row, so why couldn't he figure this out. He needed a cigarette, now. Damn John and Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft, hiding the one thing he needed, taking away the one thing he had left to help him focus. 'I need a damn  _cigarette_!' With a hard swing of his arm he flung the books and unopened letters scattered on the desk before him onto the hard wooden floor of his flat. He whipped his head back and forth as he searched for a hiding place not discovered by his unrelenting housemates. There was  _always_  some tucked away somewhere: Billy. With a relit vigor he leapt around the armchair blocking his way and grabbed the skull always kept safely atop his mantle and flipped it upside down. No! He peered down the foramen magnum and into the hollow cranium searchingly, they were gone; someone had taken them. Again! His jaw clenched and his nostrils flared as he gently placed his most loyal friend back down onto the mantle. This was absurd, what was he supposed to do? He needed to  _think_ : patches. Running to the bathroom he dug through the drawers, threw everything out of the cabinets only to find an empty box, which he proceeded to crumple into a wad and throw across the small dimly lit confinement trapping him like a caged animal.

He found himself faced with two options as he stared at his smoldering reflection in the dingy mirror; one, go to the drug store and get more patches, not the favorite option, but the one he wouldn't have to make excuses for, or two, go to the corner market and get a carton of cigarettes, the cons of that being John finding them, taking them, and throwing them away. Again. He looked down at the three residual black rings on his forearm from the adhesive of the patches and scoffed. No, patches won't be enough, not three, not ten, not a whole box. He needed nicotine and he needed it quickly, and in the form of a small white stick and smoke flowing down into his lungs. Yes, decision was made, cigarettes it was.

He made his way quickly to the front door and pulled the familiar black wool of his long overcoat from the hook and set in into place on his shoulders before grabbing the dark blue scarf and tucking the ends neatly through the folded loop on the opposite side. He could hear Mrs. Hudson merrily flitting around her flat below, he would need an excuse, and one she would tell John so his suspicions wouldn't be raised. He jumped down the stairs two at a time, hoping he would be quick enough to avoid her altogether.

"Oh Sherlock!" he heard his landlady call as soon as he'd turned the front door's knob.

"Yes Mrs. Hudson?" he answered a little too rudely.

"Are you on your way out?"

"Yes."

"Could you grab me some sugar on the way home? Be a dear, my hip's been aching all day-"

"Yes."

He'd cut her off, it was rude, but he needed to leave before John got back. His time was running out and if he got caught, he'd be stuck wallowing in this misery for eternity. He quickly slid through the open and doorway and latched the heavy wooden door behind him before smiling to himself. Free at last. The corner market was a short enough walk, the perfect amount of time to chain-smoke three or four of his precious treasures on the way back.

"Hello, where are you off to?" John asked from the curb as he stepped out of a cab.

No no no no NO! This is not what was supposed to happen! Sherlock's teeth clamped together painfully as he tried to keep his face unperturbed, the tension causing his jaw to tremble slightly. His mind was far the past the point of return, if he didn't get what he so desired, he would go mad, nothing was going to deter him from this mission. Damn it John! Wait, yes, the perfect solution. His mind jumped for joy as it basked in its newest revelation. He'd gotten his last cigarette from her, surely he could get another, and it would be the perfect alibi, as long as she didn't go blabbing to John. He'd deal with that later. Once the deed was done, it was done and he could get back to thinking, deducing and finally solving this blasted case. The hospital, where Ellie, Everleigh, whatever, worked, she would have one and she would give him one. Yes, finally, something working out perfectly.

"The hospital," Sherlock answered, trying not to sound too excited while he waved to John's cabbie to wait for him.

"Oh? For what?" John inquired, sticking his hands in his coat pockets.

"I need to talk to Ellie. About the case, see if any of her patients told her information I could use."

"Oh, well I'll go with you."  
"No!"

"Why not? I didn't even think you liked her."

"I don't. I just need information. You'll just waste time trying to charm her. I'll go alone. Mrs. Hudson needs sugar, she asked me to tell you to get her some."

"No, she asked you to get her some."

"And I'm asking you."

"For God's sake Sherlock."

Enough was enough; Sherlock brushed past John and got into the cab, ignoring the look of complete frustration on his friend's face. Other people's feelings were so tedious sometimes, always changing, yet so predictable. He needed something new, someone refreshing, who would always keep him guessing and who would never settle into monotony. There was no one like that people were all the same, boring and predictable.

"St Bart's," Sherlock instructed the cabbie as he settled in to the back seat.

* * *

Everleigh sat behind the desk in the Emergency Department with Sam and Lisa, running lines with Sam for the part in War Horse he'd just been awarded. Rehearsals were set to begin in a few weeks time and Sam wanted a head start on the production. Everleigh enjoyed the downtime with her two closest companions. She hadn't felt this at ease in a very long time. For once everything seemed to be going in an upward direction. She had a very solid group forming, Sam, Lisa, John, Nora. The sensation of constantly treading water, never moving forward, always stuck fighting against the current just to stay afloat, was finally fading away.

"Dr. Braxton, there's someone up at the front desk to see you," the medical admin tech informed her as he hung up the telephone.

"Oh? Did they say who it was?" Ev questioned, unsure of who would be coming here to see her at noon on a Monday.

"No. Sorry."

As she stood up to greet her mystery visitor she ran through everyone that could possibly be on the other side of those heavy double doors. She had plans with John tomorrow evening, surely it couldn't be him, he would just call if he had to cancel, and that hardly deserved a face-to-face visit anyway. Her cousin, almost impossible, she'd never dare come see her, not after what she did. The trip was far too long for her grandparents to suffer through, no they were home, bundled up with tea and books as they always were on rainy afternoons. As she pushed her way through the swinging door, the person who awaited her was the last person she would have expected. Sherlock Holmes sat in a chair in the waiting room, mindlessly watching the woman on the TV drone on and on about the importance of regular colonoscopies after the age of 40. His dark curly hair lay slightly matted against his head, small droplets of rain still clinging to the strands like dewdrops on a spider's web. He looked so innocent sitting there, his face relaxed as he enjoyed these rare moments of peace. He took on an almost boyish appearance and Everleigh couldn't help but smile slightly to herself, the man behind the mask, a small glimpse at the vulnerability that lied under the surly comments and sarcastic tone.

"Hello Sherlock," she finally chimed, causing his face to snap back to its cold indifference.

"Hello. I was wondering if I could have a word," he stated coolly, his grey eyes locked onto hers.

"Sure. What about?"

"My case."

"All right. But I'm afraid I've told you everything, I won't be of much help."

"You'd be surprised."

She smiled a little at him as he raised his eyebrows, his own lips curling into a slight one-sided smirk. She liked the way his eyes crinkled as the corners of his mouth stretched to meet them, the slight sparkle in the icy grey.

"Shall we go outside?" he asked, gesturing to the sliding glass doors.

"Uh, sure, let me go get my coat," she answered, looking skeptically to the dreary conditions on the other side of the doors.

He watched as she walked away, letting the fake sincerity fall from his face with a groan. Conversing was tiring. He just wanted a cigarette. The rain fell outside the glass sliding doors, hitting the pavement in minute splashes one after another, mesmerizing him. Four people murdered, four locations, no apparent link between any of them. Two men, two women and only one error that has led to no new evidence, no assistance and an unsolved case, there was something else he was missing, but what was it? He'd gotten into an argument with a man in an alley and killed him, that wasn't planned. What had began as an amicable meeting ended with one of them being killed, but why? And why was he murdering all these people? What did they have, what did they know? This wasn't random, no he'd ruled that out already, this was premeditated, carefully planned and executed. Suddenly, a small hand on his forearm jolted him from deep within his mind palace, silencing the repetitive voices berating his inabilities to solve this seemingly simple case. Her brown doe eyes peered up at him, so delicate, so fragile, and entirely vulnerable. He had to admit, she did have a pretty face. Her features were soft and feminine. Her pink lips dipped slightly in the middle, contrasting well with her alabaster skin, her nose sloped slightly to a round tip, and blonde hair fell down to her jaw line, framing her face in messy disarray. She wasn't awful to look at.

"Ready?" she asked, removing her hand from his arm.

"Yes," he answered as he took his first steps towards the doors, leaving her to trail behind him.

She followed him out the doors into the cold autumn rain, the drops stinging her cheeks as they pelted against her reddening skin. She envied the man pulling farther and farther away from her with his long strides, she'd forgotten her scarf inside leaving her neck and chest open to the winds and rain, chilling her to the very core. She felt her bones shivering as she finally joined Sherlock underneath the covered sanctuary of a bus stop, thankful it's thin plastic walls blocked most of the blustering cold.

"Do you have a cigarette?" he asked her as she dug her numb hands into the warm refuge of her pockets.

"Yes,' she replied, feeling the familiar thin cardboard with what little feeling had returned in her right hand.

"May I have one?"

"Don't you ever have your own?"

"No."

"Is that why you came all this way? To get a cigarette from me?"

"Yes."

Everleigh let out a small chuckle and watched as his face grew agitated, brow furrowing before rolling his eyes in annoyance and impatience. She pulled the carton from her pocket and held it out to him, there were only a few left and he was obviously in far more need than she was. He took the box from her, his hands clad in black leather gloves and gave another crooked, eye crinkling smirk, only this time it was genuine, although to her eyes it looked exactly the same.

"You can have the rest, just save one for me," she requested as she handed him her lighter.

"Do you want it now?" he asked as his lips held tightly to the cigarette in between them, his thumb flicking the small silver wheel of the lighter.

"No, I try not to when I'm working. Patients tend to dislike the smell."

Finally, a small flame blazed from the top of the cheap blue lighter and Sherlock brought the dancing orange flare to the end of the cigarette between his lips. He felt the heat filter slowly into his mouth before inhaling deeply, embers falling like snowflakes as the paper and tobacco burned. The relief was instantaneous, he felt his nerves calm and his mind open. Thoughts flowed in from the newly opened doors, flooding the hallways and cluttered foyers. The possibilities were endless now; he'd have this case solved within an hour.

Everleigh watched him, entranced by his silent relief. His shoulders relaxed and the tension was erased from his face, giving him a more youthful appearance, similar to the one she'd seen earlier in the hospital. She saw his eyes moving rapidly back and forth beneath his closed lids, as if he were watching things fly quickly past him, his left hand and fingers moved ever so slightly at his sides, the right mimicking the movements when it wasn't holding his cigarette. She'd remembered John talk about Sherlock. How he'd sit in silence for hours, sorting through facts in his mind. She felt a certain sense of embarrassment as she watched him, feeling as if she were intruding on a very private moment. He didn't seem like a man who took comfort in showing any moment of slight vulnerability, and it peaked her curiosity as to why he was opening it up to her, if he even still remembered she was standing there.

"Thank you Dr. Braxton. You've been most helpful," Sherlock finally spoke aloud, eyes shooting open, his foot stomping the remnants of his cherished prize on the sidewalk, leaving behind an ashy black smudge.

"You're welcome and uh, you don't have to call me that," she ensured him with a playful tone.

"Goodbye Ellie."

"Bye."

Sherlock took off towards the curb, immediately pulling another cigarette from the carton. Everleigh turned back towards the hospital, a small smile growing larger on her lips. She liked that Sherlock Holmes in a strange, alluring kind of way. She'd even grown sort of fond of the surliness and arrogance that had first put her off. He had so much to offer and she hoped, deep down, that one day he may be willing to share some of it with her, no matter how many cigarettes it cost.

* * *

_A/N:_ _Any suggestions, criticisms, and compliments are always welcome!_


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Sometimes,/it is the most/broken/rooftops/that know the most/amazing ways/to paint/the walls with/light.

-Tyler Knott Gregson

* * *

"He's here John," Sherlock whispered to his friend beside him, "Phone Lestrade."

Sherlock's grey eyes darted left and right quickly, his senses hyper alert. He heard scratching, tapping, clicking, there were far too many smells to differentiate, it was impossible to concentrate on one thing.

"Shut up," he spat, turning his attention to John as he scrolled through his phone's contacts.

"I didn't, say anything," John replied, looking around confused.

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

"I'm stepping outside to make this call, don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

Sherlock shot his friend an exacerbated scowl before watching him walk out of the building. What did he know? The killer was here, hiding, and he needed to find him before it was too late.

Sherlock and John had traced the killer to an old parking garage in West End. There were five floors and Sherlock had him cornered on the top level. After coming to the conclusion the third killing hadn't been intentional, the case solved itself, all within an hour, just as he'd expected. The murderer, Curtis Hamurlund, had gunned down two women and one man for one thing: prestige. How petty people truly were. This man had quite literally killed his competition. Of course, people metaphorically killed people to gain position everyday, but he hunted three people down and murdered them in cold blood. Well, his dignity would now rot in prison faster than the corpses of those he'd gunned down. People were despicable.

Suddenly, Sherlock heard a grinding sound on his left; shoes on concrete. Time was up; he needed to act now, with or without John. Keeping his eyes locked to his left Sherlock reached into his waistband and pulled out his 9mm handgun. With silence and precision he turned the safety off and readied the weapon for firing.

"I know you're here!" Sherlock shouted in an attempt to draw his adversary out from his hiding place.

Silence. This was getting boring. With practiced stealth, Sherlock began stalking to the pillars against the far left wall. He needed to put an end to this; it had gone on for long enough already, it wasn't fun anymore. Where was John? It didn't take this long to make a phone call. He kept his steps light and quiet, peering around the parked cars, hunting for his prey.

The silence was deafening, it clogged his senses and clouded his mind. Where was John? The question kept repeating in his head. As the silence weighed on, he felt himself begging for the sound of John's footsteps to resonate through the cement walls. Nothing. He continued his search down the left wall, sneaking glances in every hiding place, each one of them empty. When he'd reached the end of the wall with still not so much as a tiptoe from John or Curtis, Sherlock felt his cheeks grow hot in frustration. This was not going as it was supposed to. He should be home in his pajamas studying his newly acquired bacteria specimens under the microscope, not here searching for an inferiorly intelligent murdering idiot.

Preparing himself to start back at square one and return to guarding the elevator and stairwell, Sherlock turned on his heels. Though instead of the empty stone walkway, a pale main with bright, blonde hair greeted him.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," the man hissed before landing a crippling blow to Sherlock's midsection, forcing him to drop his gun and keel over in an attempt to catch his breath, "I was wondering how long it would take you to figure out the little mystery."

Sherlock glared through his eyebrows at Curtis Hamurlund as he gasped for air, his chest burning with each intake of oxygen. The pulsing ache in his abdomen ruined his attempts at righting himself, even the slightest movement turned the ache to a sharp, stinging stab. His thoughts traveled to John, he didn't see him so that must mean he was safe. Still on the phone with Lestrade perhaps, or maybe waiting for him to arrive down on the ground level. Sherlock was completely alone, his weapon on the ground, nowhere in sight and a murdering lunatic standing victoriously above him. He darted his eyes back and forth, searching for his gun, it must have fallen underneath a car.

"Looking for this?" Curtis snarled, dangling Sherlock's discarded pistol in front of his eyes.

Sherlock let out a defeated sigh before the butt of his gun came crashing into his temple. He groaned as the pain seared through his entire head, the blow throwing him to his hands and knees. His blood dripped from his wound onto the pavement inches from his face, staining the porous grey crimson red. He felt the warm, wet trails it made along the side of his face and down his nose. A mix of salt and metal stung his nostrils and filled his mouth as he gasped for air. His vision was blurry as he tried to regain control of his senses, but his attempts were quickly cut short when a foot landed another deadly blow to his rib cage, causing him to fall on his side. He cradled his arms around his throbbing midsection as the pavement brutally grinded against his seeping gash. He heard the maniacal laughter of Curtis, but nothing else. John, where are you? John. John! JOHN!

Sherlock's pitiful attempts at screaming his companions name came out as inaudible mumbles, earning him more condescending laugher from Curtis Hamurlund. He would not let it end this way; this man would not get the best of Sherlock Holmes. He would not be defeated curled in a ball on the ground. With a roaring groan Sherlock pushed himself up onto unsteady feet, he swayed from side to side and back and forth as he tried to regain his footing, tried to ready himself to fight. His eyes refused to focus, his left shrouded in a hue of blurry red.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Sherlock asked in a patronizing tone, raising his limp arms up from his sides.

Gunshots echoed through the dark, cement walls, the crack of gunpowder haunting with a tragic finality.

* * *

Everleigh watched the minutes tick by on her leather strapped wristwatch; just ten more minutes, then she could go and enjoy two days off. It seemed that with every passing hour only five minutes was taken off the clock. All the patients were cared for and waiting for test results, charting was done, she'd even cleaned the entire break room and locker room to help pass the time, but still it dragged on at an agonizing pace. Her mind floated to music for the first time in a long while. She heard the notes of her unfinished piece chiming in her head, so peaceful and soothing. Just as the melody came to her favorite part, an abrupt vibrating in her pants pocket shook her from her trance. Unknown number.

She'd been getting more and more calls from unknown numbers, never a message and always more than one call after another no matter how many times she ignored it. A creeping unease set in whenever those words greeted her, something was not right. She hit ignore, but before she could even get the phone back into her pocket it went off again. Unknown number. It had gotten to the point where she had considered calling someone about it, the police, the phone company, anyone that could give her answers, but instead chose to suffer in silence. It had worked for so many years, why would it backfire now?

Finally, the clock read 7:00 PM and Everleigh felt the life return to her once more. She bade goodbye to the shift relieving her and walked beside Sam on the way out.

"Any plans for the weekend?" he asked her, shoving his hands in his pockets as the cold October air hit them.

"Nothing. Maybe play the piano, read a book, I don't know," Everleigh replied, watching her breath cloud out in front of her, "How about you?"

"Just, reading lines."

"Ah, well, if you need any help you have my number."

"Yeah, thanks."

Ev smiled as Sam broke off and headed to the covered bus stop she'd been in earlier with Sherlock. A smile crept onto her lips as she remembered the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled and the way his baritone voice seemed to rattle her very soul. And she'd given him the last of her cigarettes. She blew her breath out in a huff at the realization she needed to go to the market to get more, this day was just never-ending. She reached her hand into the pocket of her coat, only to find it empty. She dug through both coat pockets and her bag, coming up empty handed. With an exasperated sigh the realization hit her, her car keys were sitting on the bench in the employee locker room, she remembered taking them out of her pocket just moments before leaving, and even remembered the mental note she had made herself to  _not_  forget them. Good job, Ev, she thought to herself as she turned around and made the chilling walk back into the hospital.

Everleigh muttered under her breath as she trudged her way through the puddles from the rain earlier in the day, water splashing up the back of her legs. As she got closer, three police cars and an ambulance came to a screeching halt at the entrance to the ER, men yelling and the night crew rushing out into the cold with stretchers. Her interest now peaked, Ev jogged back to the building and into the growing crowd.

The first thing she saw was a man being pulled out of the back of ambulance, a sheet over his head, blood seeping through the sheet in his abdomen area. Second, John Watson was standing near a police car, talking to a 30 or so year old female dressed in a pants suit, a detective if Ev had to guess. And third, an older man, around 40, with grey hair was arguing with a tall, curly haired figure shrouded in a long black coat. Sherlock. He wasn't facing her, but he looked to be unsteady on his feet, holding on to the rear of the police vehicle he stood adjacent to. Ev made the quick decision to check on Sherlock before going to talk to John, she didn't like the way he swayed or how his shoulders seemed more slouched than normal.

"I don't need a doctor! I'm not going in there," she heard Sherlock shouting.

"Sherlock! You're bleeding from your head, that needs stitches!" the older man he was with preached as if he were talking to his son, fingers pointing and everything.

"What's going on? Sherlock are you all right? Oh good God!" Everleigh yelled as soon as she was within earshot of the two men, grimacing when Sherlock turned to face her.

He had a three-inch gash going from his temple to over his left eye, which was practically swollen shut, a purple bruise triumphing over the pale white of his skin. He hunched over slightly, his right hand holding the left side of his ribcage as his breaths came in short gasps. He looked awful.

"What happened to you?" she asked, placing a hand gently on his left cheek and turning his face to better inspect his wound.

When her skin met his, he inhaled sharply, it was impossible to tell if it was from the pain, or shock that she had so freely gone and touched him. He stared at her through bewildered eyes, his whole body tensing. Her hand was cold from being outdoors in the autumn night, soothing his throbbing cheek, her touch gentle and soft. Her face was filled with concern, her brows furrowed until they almost met in the middle, her mouth down turned and her teeth clenched. Just as it had when she'd grabbed his arm, his mind went quiet. No longer did he hear his own berating about everything that had gone wrong that evening, or Lestrade's ridiculous pleas for him to check into the Emergency Room, or John's scolding about going after the murderer alone, it was quiet. Her fingertips grazed lightly as she pulled her hand away, leaving little trails of warmth in their place. For a split second Sherlock swore he felt, longing? No, that was impossible.

"You need stitches," she told him, "Come inside and I'll do it quickly for you."

"Told you!" Lestrade yelled back with a smile as Sherlock regrettably followed Everleigh into the hospital.

They reached a small exam room at the rear of the department and Everleigh dug around in the drawers searching for a suture kit as Sherlock sat atop the paper covered table. He'd always loathed hospitals, being a patient in one anyways. The white was off putting, couldn't they paint the walls something less, obnoxious? It almost burned his eyes looking at the walls in the industrial lighting shining from above his head. His feet hung off the end table, swinging absentmindedly like a child would, causing Ev to smile as she prepared a tray to do her work with.

"So, what happened?" she asked him as she donned gloves and turned to face her very impatient patient.

"I caught a murderer," he stated, bored of her questioning already.

"Oh? The one from a week ago?"

"Yes."

"I see he did quite a number on you. How'd you end up beating him in the end?"

"John shot him through the heart."

"Oh."

He looked at her through the corner of his eye, smirking at her apparent discomfort from his answer as she wiped his cut with iodine. He spoke nothing but the truth. After he'd mustered all his strength to stand on his feet, taunting the killer to finish what he'd started, Sherlock heard gunshots fire through the garage. He'd expected to feel an immense amount of pain shoot through his stomach and chest, but instead watched as his assailant fell to the ground in a bloody heap, revealing the 'heroic John Watson' to be standing behind him, smoke still billowing from the tip of his gun.

"All right, going to numb you up, this may pinch a bit," she warned as she prepped the lidocaine in its syringe, flicking the top with her forefinger, "Why do you do it?"

"Do wha-ahh what?" he asked, stuttering his word as she pricked the needle into his already sore skin.

"Hunt down criminals, put yourself in danger like this."

"Because I'm the only one who can."

"Perhaps but, you could do so many other things with your skills and intellect, yet you choose to help people with your talents. That's very admirable in my opinion."

She gave him a small smile as she placed the syringe down and grabbed the suture needle. Admirable. That wasn't something he'd ever been called before. It was usually show off, arrogant, rude, bastard. Never had he been called admirable before. He caught himself smirking, the right side of his face lifted into a happy little smile. Before he could correct it, she'd caught sight and her smile grew until it touched her eyes. Her whole face lit up, her white teeth shined in the light, her eyes sparkled and her laugh lines broke free from below the layer of frost that encased them. It was hard not to smile along with her, but he managed to bring back his mask of apathy.

"I enjoy solving cases," he finally answered, trying his best to sound convincing.

She didn't believe him, but went along with his ploy, not wanting to make him more uncomfortable. She threaded the first line of string through his skin, carefully ensuring the skins placement to avoid causing a terrible scar. Sherlock's eyes fell as she worked slowly, his fingers jittering and his feet swinging in embarrassment. She knew there was so much more to Sherlock Holmes than she thought anyone knew. She kept her fingers light as she held his head in place, his dark curls brushing the side of her finger as she mended his broken skin, catching a glimpse of the broken man beneath the surface.

"Why do you do what you do?" he finally asked, breaking the silence.

"I want to help people. I always said I wanted to make a difference in one person's life," she answered, frowning at her words.

"Have you?"

"No."

"Being a doctor not filling your philanthropic needs?"

"I suppose not. Not yet at least."

A deep sadness settled into her heart, that gnawing, scathing feeling that she didn't matter, and never would. It was a selfish reason to be doing her profession, she knew that, but it drove her to succeed like nothing else ever would. She liked helping people, mending the wounded, healing the sick, but deep down she knew the root of her motivation; the undying need for admiration. She longed to be loved, be a beacon of light when the darkness surrounded someone; she just wanted to  _matter_. She wanted to be the one someone told stories about, how she'd changed their life, made them a better person, saved them from the impending abyss, but the longer time went on, the farther into her own darkening prison she fell. She began to realize that perhaps first, she needed to be saved.

"All right, you're all done," Ev spoke quietly as she placed the gauze over Sherlock's newly acquired eight stitches.

She placed a reassuring hand on his cheek, letting it linger for a moment. His eyes closed as her warm hand held steady on his face, where had this kind of nurturing been his entire life? He'd hurt himself so many times as a child, yet today, at the age of 31, was the first time anyone had laid a reassuring hand on him. A hand to let him know they were there, that they  _cared_. He swallowed hard before standing up, breaking the contact between them, banishing the corrupting thoughts from his mind. She didn't care, not about him anyways. This was her job and he had his, which was what his mind needed to focus on. Only now, he'd solved his case, leaving him prey to the stalking demons that took advantage of every break, every moment of sanctuary silence. There would be more work; no doubt he'd have an inbox full of work sitting on his desk at home. Oh, and yes, his new bacteria! Oh it was going to be a good night.

"Thank you," he said, nodding his head to her.

"You're welcome," she whispered back, the sadness setting back into her eyes.

With one last empathetic look at her, he opened the door to the exam room and left, not looking back, erasing the past thirty minutes from his mind completely.

* * *

_A/N: This one was hard! Not sure why, but I hope you guys like it. \_ _Please review/follow/favorite!_


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"It's here, here in this broken hour, that the broken in me sings out to be heard.

The fractured and the severed, the sharp edged and the unglueable. Can you hear it from where you rest? Can you make out the sounds over the haunted hum of the Autumn wind?"

-Tyler Knott Gregson

* * *

Everleigh sneaked a glance across the table to the man sitting across from her and felt a pang of regret jab in her in the ribs. She'd been unbearably unpleasant all evening, knowing full well John hadn't done anything to deserve it. She had barely spoken ten words since they'd sat down in a quiet coffee shop almost an hour ago and John had stopped trying to make conversation 30 minutes in.

"All right, what's going on?" John finally asked, trying his best to hide the frustration in his voice.

"Nothing," she replied, picking up a spoon and stirring her coffee for what must have been the twentieth time.

"I'm not stupid."

She finally turned her head up to face his. His eyes were wide with worry, but his annoyance was etched into the lines around his mouth. She knew John had the patience of a saint, having to put up with Sherlock practically 24/7, and she was sure that was where all of it went. The truth was, she'd lost interest in, well everything. She'd woken up that morning covered in sweat after two hours of restless sleep. The haunting blackness had overtook her already fading mind, whatever hope she had garnered was wiped out. Her phone had nine missed calls, all from the unknown number. She felt like she was on the edge of breaking down, teetering on a cracking ledge. Only now, she hoped it would shatter, sending her falling down to rock bottom. Who cared anymore?

"I know that," she finally answered, trying her best to give him a small smile, "I'm just tired is all. Didn't sleep well last night."

"I uh, wanted to thank you for patching Sherlock up last night. I would have had to do it at home and that's never fun," John said changing the subject, his eyes still ridden with apprehension.

"Oh, yeah, no problem. He really did a number on himself there. Is he all right?"

"Sherlock is never 'all right'. He gets a few things wrong now and again. Not that he'll admit it either way."

For the first time that evening, Ev cracked a real smile, John joining her. John was the only real thing in her life at the moment. He was always there, always happy, understanding, yet she knew she needed to tread carefully. She knew John held some sort of feelings for her; the soft look in his eyes, the wayward glances but the feelings weren't mutual. The last thing in the world Everleigh wanted was a romantic relationship at the moment. There was no way she could emotionally support another person, she was barely holding herself together. Was that to say she wouldn't possibly pursue him in the future though? Whenever her mind wandered to John, it always ended at Sherlock. His grey eyes, dark curls, the cold arrogance, and the bits and pieces of him she'd caught in his rare moments of vulnerability. He was interesting and captivating, but she got the feeling not many other people felt that way about him.

"You saved his life last night," she stated, giving her companion a soft look.  
"Who told you that?" he asked her, his eyebrows crinkling together.

"Sherlock."

"He, admitted that?"

"Well, no. I just asked him how he had caught the man, especially after being so banged up, and he said you shot him through the heart."

"That blow to the head must have been harder than I thought it was."

The duo laughed again, Ev felt the weight on her chest lift just slightly, John had the tendency to do that. His lighthearted humor and wide smile made it impossible to stay in her self-wallowing misery.

"Well, I should probably get going. Do you want me to give you a ride home? I don't mind at all," Ev told her friend sadly, taking the last cold sip of her coffee.

"No it's all right, you should go home and get some sleep. It'll do you good," John replied, standing up to pull her chair out for her.

With a quick hug she bade her dearest friend good night and got into her car, not looking forward to what this night would bring.

* * *

Everleigh awoke the following morning in the same manner as the day before; drenched in sweat and heart filled with despair. Her hands were shaking as she made her morning tea, her breaths ragged. Her heart thundered in her chest, giving the berating voice a drum beat to speak in cadence with. Disappointment. Failure. Alone. Alone. Alone. She clapped her hands over her ears, but the sounds were coming from inside the walls. The echoes of her breath, the strum of her pounding heart, it had to stop. Everleigh ran from her kitchen into her living room, doing the only thing she'd ever known to calm her worsening anxiety attack.

She threw the wooden barrier up, dust spraying into the air, to reveal the long line of white and black keys. Her fingers delicately grazed over each one, their cool, smooth texture soothing. It had been so long since she'd even touched the keys to the piano, it was time to break this long, crippling spell. The baby grand welcomed her home, her fingers gracefully dancing over the keys as if she'd never stopped playing a day in her life. The melody filled her mind; calming the nerves and paralyzing the anxiety coursing it's way through her body. She began with a personal favorite, Claire de Lune; it was committed to her memory, destined never to leave. The enchanting soft hum lulled her mind into a more peaceful state, her thoughts drifted away from the debilitating horrors. She thought of her father, he'd left when she was 13, but the few memories she held before that were ones she would cherish. He had always been a happy man, his disappearance had truly hit her hard, and he had loved her. They floated on to her grandparents, the two single greatest people she had ever known. Taking her and her cousin in and never complaining, teaching them, guiding them. But they had been overwhelmed. Then to John, with his exceptional positive outlook and fierce ability to care and love, he was truly one of a kind. Finally, they came to Sherlock. The fearful child that broke through the exterior, the lonely man that hid behind the cold mask. Deep down, Everleigh knew her and Sherlock were more alike than she cared to ever admit.

After over an hour of rekindling her love of music, Ev felt herself tired again, her mind finally at rest. The only thing echoing through her mind now were the soft notes of the piano, lulling her back to sleep.

* * *

Bill, bill, bill, what? Everleigh flipped through her mail. She'd awoken refreshed and clear headed after a short nap. She discarded the bills onto her counter, ripping the ornately decorated white envelope that remained.

You are cordially invited to the joining of

Hannah Nicole Braxton and Thomas Phillips

In holy matrimony

On the 28th of September 2012.

Her resolve broke. How dare she? The cardboard save the date crumpled in Ev's fist. That backstabbing, manipulative, pathetic little bitch, this was the ultimate slap in the face. How could she even think for one moment that Ev would want to attend her wedding to  _her own ex fiancé_? Her body shook with anger. As she tried to fight the tears her face grew hot, with rage, with regret, the sadness finally spilling over. She screamed, grabbing the first thing she could find and hurtling into the wall. The thin glass of her grandmother's wine glass shattered as it impacted with the wall, another following in its path. The betrayal, the pain, it was too much. Her wails boomed through the entire house, for once in her life she was glad she lived alone. This is what her life had become. A broken heap of a woman once destined for greatness, sobbing on the floor as she watched her discarded heart beating, bloody and battered. Her will to live lost.

The old saying was not true, it was not better to have loved and lost than never loved at all. She wanted to throttle the blind idiot that had said that. Or perhaps, maybe it was possible to feel that way, when you didn't have to watch your family parade around with said lost love. The thought of watching Hannah walk down the aisle to him, her family smiling and gleeful, it made her sick to stomach. She felt the bile rising into her throat. She lifted herself up onto the sink and began dry heaving before what little she had in her stomach came out, burning her throat. As her stomach heaved and her eyes watered, some clarity came back to her. She'd thrown her grandmother's wine glasses. Those had been in the family for three generations, and now they lay shattered on her kitchen floor. Another wave of anger flooded through her, only this time it was at herself.

She crawled over to the shards littering the white tile. She felt one stab into her palms, but she didn't care. The blood started seeping through the puncture wound, leaving a thin trail of blood as she dragged her hands across the linoleum. The sight was gruesome but the pain not comparable to the stabbing wound of heartbreak. She had known she and Tom were never getting back together; hell she hadn't even wanted it. She was unsure of what upset her the most, the fact that Hannah had stolen him away from her, or the fact that no matter how hard she tried to escape him, he would always be there. He was a permanent fixture in her life, reminding her of her shortcomings. She'd tried her hardest to be everything he had wanted her to be, but it was never enough. How was one expected to move on when the roadblock was never removed?

She picked up the stems of the broken glasses, running her thumb over the razor sharp edges. She watched the blood ooze from the newly torn skin, feeling as if her body and mind were completely different things. She failed to really comprehend that it was  _her_  finger that was cut open. Her glazed eyes followed the drops as they fell to the floor, her delusion setting in. Her body was exhausted, her heart was broken and her mind had shut down. She was numb, she peered down at her hands, smeared with her own blood, three shards of glass sticking into the skin, but she felt no pain. She needed help. With the last ounce of strength she could muster, she grabbed her phone and called the only person she knew would come.

"Hello?"

"John…"

"Everleigh, my God you sound awful, what's happened? Are you all right?"

"No."

"Are you home?"  
"Yes."

"I'll be right there."

* * *

Sherlock and John sat in their living room, John flipped through a magazine as Sherlock perused the long list of emails clogging his inbox. Waste of time, stupid, waste of time, maybe, no, no. The cases were all so simple; he solved them just by reading the title. He needed a real case, something he could stretch his mind with, he could feel it going stagnant which would leave him with no choice but to resort to the, less desirable solutions. A stagnant mind never did anyone any good it only led to trouble. Bored! His head ached and his left eye was still slightly swollen which made looking through the microscope almost impossible. His new bacteria specimens sat idly in the refrigerator, right beside his newly acquired human brain, which also needed dissecting. Add that to the list of more things that were impossible to do. He needed a case.

When John's phone went off, Sherlock felt his spirits rise. Maybe this was something to do. He listened in on the short conversation. It was Ellie. She was unwell. No doubt John would travel alone to her flat, which left him in an even worse predicament than he was already in.

"What's going on?" Sherlock asked his friend as John rushed about collecting his belongings.

"I don't know. Something's happened at Everleigh's place," John answered, throwing his jacket onto his shoulders.

"Maybe I should come along."

"I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"You're not exactly a very comforting person to have around."

Sherlock scowled over at his friend, but he knew he was right. Sherlock had little regard for emotions, they were messy and useless, and they got in the way of seeing the truth. So many times a sobbing mother or wife, or a traumatized brother had given him misinformation; it was just all a tiresome game at this point. He watched John run down the stairs, this woman really had a hold on him. Ah the petty feelings of love, pathetic. Caring was not an advantage.

* * *

Sherlock peered into the window. There was no evidence of a break in from what he'd been able to see. John had begun sweeping up the shards of glass littering the floor, doing his part to prevent her from doing any more damage to herself. She hadn't moved a muscle since he had begun watching. Seated on the floor, knees pulled up to chest, her glazed eyes stared out the window, yet she didn't even notice he was standing looking at her through the very same one.

She did not look to John. She didn't even acknowledge him, her hands stayed limp in his as he took them into his own to assess their damage. She looked almost peaceful, her eyes seemingly focused on a small sparrow flitting to and fro on a branch that rested against the glass pane. Sherlock's eyes searched through the room, a small white card lay discarded under her table, crumpled into a tight wad, she had clearly shattered two glasses, getting the sharp remnants of her outburst embedded into her palms, her phone lay discarded to her right, blood hardening from where her thumb touched. She looked like hell. He needed to see what was on that card; the reasoning for her current state would be there. John was frantic, panicking. And why? She was fine, a little cut up, depressed, which Sherlock knew already, she'd be fine after a cup of tea and some television no doubt. But the question for her outbreak scratched at the corner of his mind, he  _knew_  she was hiding something and this was at least one part of it.

This would occupy his mind at least for a little while, the great mystery of Everleigh Rose. It was time to reveal himself, John would be annoyed, but his catatonic friend probably wouldn't even notice; he needed that card.

"John," he announced, glass crunching under his shoes in the hallway.

"Sherlock! What are you doing here?" John asked, clearly very angry.

"I wanted to see if she was all right."  
"No. You didn't."

At the sound of Sherlock's voice, Everleigh snapped out of her trance. Her watery eyes turned to his and for a moment, he was horrified. All he saw was pain and suffering, he saw everything in her eyes that he worked so hard to mask in his own. Her face was red and blotchy, her hands now clean and bandaged thanks to John. He felt drawn to her and before he knew it, his feet had transported to stand directly in front of her broken, battered form. He saw the other half of himself in her, the half that wanted to break down and stop pretending that everything was all right, because it wasn't. It hadn't been for a long time. He knew his façade wasn't going to last, it was chipping away the longer he stayed near her.

"John, I think you should go find her a blanket," Sherlock suggested as he crouched down, her eyes following him.

"Yeah all right," John reluctantly agreed, walking to find her bedroom.

Sherlock could do nothing but stare at her. Her sadness was mesmerizing, reassuring. He knew his mouth hung open slightly, his eyes were telling her everything she needed to know. It was moments like this that made her heart stutter, the childlike wonder and the beautiful shattered soul she saw in his grey eyes. Neither one of them spoke, they didn't need to, their words traveled silently to one another. In that moment they felt one in the same, each suffering silently, taking comfort solely in the presence of the other. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock repeated to himself in his mind over and over, but it did no good. Not this time. He thought to all the times as a child he'd went and cried to his brother, only to be pushed away, his parents had held no sympathy for him either. He had been truly alone in the world, and he knew she had as well. The great mystery of Everleigh Rose, perhaps the greatest mystery was not her past, but her future.

Sherlock heard John's footsteps approaching; he needed to put himself back together. He quickly stood up and walked out of the open door to her front step into the cool mid morning air. He felt all his pieces snapping back together and being swept back into the deep recesses of his soul, but he was still shaken. This girl was dangerous. This girl could be his undoing.

John stood Everleigh up gently and led her to her bed. He held her bandaged hand in his as she laid herself down. He felt like at any moment she was just going to break, physically and emotionally.

"Do you want me to stay?" he asked her softly, brushing the hair out of her eyes.

She shook her head no, catching a glimpse of a dark figure in her window. It must be Sherlock, she thought as she closed her eyes, ready to spend these next few hours in peace. She knew from that day forward neither John nor Sherlock would ever look at her the same again, whether it was for the better or worse remained to be determined.

As soon as John had taken Ellie from the kitchen, Sherlock reentered her home, remembering his original reason for going in there in the first place. He snatched the crumpled wad of paper from it's hiding spot, opening it up to reveal some sort of wedding invitation.  _Hannah Nicole Braxton and Thomas Phillips_. Their first meeting came flooding back into his mind; ' _it was my cousin. He was sleeping with my cousin_.' Everything made sense now.

"Ready?" John asked as he walked back into the kitchen, his eyes tired.

Sherlock nodded as he slipped the white cardboard ball into his pocket just as his cell phone started to vibrate. Lestrade. Oh good, a case.

* * *

 _A/N: Whew, this one was a little heavy, hopefully good. Please_ _ _review/follow/favorite, it really does make me smile!__


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

"By the pricking of my thumbs,

Something wicked this way comes."

-William Shakespeare "Macbeth"

* * *

October turned into November, bringing with it cold, grey skies and icy rains. Everleigh had done well to keep to herself, still reeling from the embarrassment her last outbreak had caused. She had not seen or spoken to Sherlock, she wasn't sure she would ever want to again. John had kept in contact with her, but she'd refused any outings with him. What on Earth did they think about her now? John thought she was some broken little china doll and Sherlock, well he most likely thought she was just a psychopath. The anger and the sadness she felt from that day still lay buried deep within her, crawling out from the crevices in the dead of night and the lonely, unending days. Time seemed to be moving slower, every agonizing second bringing her deeper and deeper into the bottomless pit of despair. Her phone was constantly plagued by calls from unknown numbers, her nights haunted by nightmares and her heart ridden with loneliness, the only thing seemingly keeping her going was her job. Work had provided a steady sense of responsibility and normalcy, something Everleigh desperately needed. Sam brought his infectious cheerfulness, while Lisa brought compassion, but there was still something missing. Her flat was lonely, her bed cold, it did nothing for her growing sense of melancholy.

She pushed herself through the motions, wake up, shower, get dressed, eat breakfast then off to work. She took one last look around her flat. Perfectly organized and clean, it was almost creepy. Loneliness wasn't becoming. As she opened her door to the blustering morning winds a small brown envelope on her door stoop caught her eye. As she bent down to pick it up, she felt her heart stammering in her chest. It was too early for the post to be delivered; it didn't have any writing on it, no addresses, no stamp, just a plain, brown envelope. Her hands shook as she picked it up off of her damp welcome mat, last night's rain soaking into the thin cardboard making it heavier than what it would normally be. With trembling fingers she broke the seal and carefully tore the flap open, the torn edges sharp on her numbing fingers.

"What on Earth?" Ev whispered as she dumped the contents of the mystery envelope into her open palm.

Her heart stopped when she saw what fell into her hands. Three wallet sized photos of her scattered onto her outstretched fingers, school photos from primary school. She felt her breakfast rising into her throat, only her grandparents had those photos and they certainly weren't sent from them. She screamed as she felt the gentle vibration of her phone in her pocket. Her fingers didn't work properly as she pulled it from her pocket, tears brimming her delicate eyes; she peered at the lit screen, BLOCKED NUMBER. Damn it, she wanted to throw that blasted phone into the road and watch it explode into a thousand tiny pieces. What was going on? Blocked calls, unmarked packages containing old photographs of her, who's ever idea of a joke this was it was getting very old very quickly.

She turned the photographs over and noticed her grandmother's handwriting on each one, Everleigh Rose and the year from which the photo had been taken. Her heart sank into her stomach as the thought of her poor, sweet grandparents hurt or in trouble crossed into her mind. Her fingers raced across her now still and silent phone, dialing their number. It rang, and rang, and rang before finally, relief.

"Hello?" Ev's grandmother sounded sweetly from the other line.

"Nana? Are you and Pop all right?" Everleigh asked, trying to hide the franticness of her voice.

"Yes of course dear, why wouldn't we be?"

"Just, uh, just making sure."  
"You sound terrible dear, it this about Hannah and Tom, because you know we didn't condone that to begin with-"  
"No, I'm fine. I have to go to work, just checking in."

"Oh, well all right dear. Come and visit soon."  
"Of course, bye Nana, love you."

Ev hung up the phone before hearing her grandmother bade her goodbye, her cheeks growing hot again at the mention of her cousin's pending nuptials, which then brought back the flooding memory of her awful behavior to John and Sherlock that day. She'd almost completely forgotten about the photos in her hand in her intensifying rage. Everywhere she went everyone she talked to was an unrelenting reminder of her solitary existence. When had living become so hard? She remembered a time where the days blurred by, her life a whirlwind of laughter, music and lovely evenings spent in better company. Now, it was as if she could see each grain of sand falling from one end of the hourglass to the other with a deafening boom, fear dulling the colors around her.

The smooth paper against her fingertips snapped her from her angry reminiscing, replacing it with unhindered fear. She desperately wanted to call on someone, anyone to help her, but she knew no one. Except for John. John would know what to do, but the embarrassment held steady and she placed her phone back into her pocket along with the photos. Sherlock could help, she thought as she locked her front door, checking it three times before turning and walking to her car, quickly banishing him from her thoughts.

* * *

Work made the day pass quickly, there was no shortage of patients which Everleigh was thankful for, but it didn't compare to the gratefulness she felt as she walked out of the doors into the cold, biting night pulling a carton of cigarettes from her pocket. She couldn't wait to get to her car, she needed her fix immediately. With jolting speed she pulled one out and lit it when as soon as she was far enough away from the building. God, there was nothing better in the world at the moment than a good, hearty drag of smoke.

"Ev! Hey! Everleigh!" a jubilant voice called out from behind her.

John Watson came to stand beside her, out of breath from jogging. She felt an immense happiness bubble up into her chest to see him, but also a crippling fear. She had no idea what he viewed her as now, what judgments had passed through his mind and lips after their last encounter and it scared her. John's was a friendship she didn't want to lose under any circumstances.

"Hey, how are you? I hadn't heard from you in awhile, just wanted to make sure you were all right," he continued after he'd caught his breath, his eyes full of sincerity.

"Fine," she answered abruptly.

"You look awful. What's happened? What's going on?"

"Nothing. Long day."

She knew it was useless; she always wore her emotions outright on her face, very much lacking the ability to disguise herself. No doubt the fear she felt inside was etched into every delicate feature. Her heart screamed at her to tell John what had happened earlier that morning, wanting someone to confide in, to help her, but her head told her no. The last thing she needed was to look more helpless in the eyes of John and Sherlock, who John would no doubt tell all about her little problem in hopes he would help. That was out of the question. She could never see Sherlock Holmes again, her cheeks burned scarlet just at the thought of another encounter with him. She thought back to their last meeting. She remembered the look in his eyes as he'd stared deep into her own. Their sadness, their vulnerability, Ev felt as if he might have been suffering worse than she was, only he was much more proficient at hiding it. The more she thought of him the more she realized just how much she longed to be around him again deep down in her heart, she wanted to wrap herself in the embrace of his arms he would never give and let her soul mingle with his. Their mutual sorrow had been silently spoken between the pair, an unspoken bond begun.

"I know something's the matter. I can tell by that look on your face," John told her sternly, crossing his arms over his chest.

Defeat had settled in, Everleigh knew when the efforts to avoid a subject weren't worth using, and this was one of them. She couldn't force herself to say the words, not wanting to face the very horror of what had become her reality. The only thing she could muster up the courage to do was reach into her pocket to remove the three photographs she had received that morning. Without making an eye contact she held her evidence up to John who took the three photos and looked at them curiously.

"Is this you?" he asked, confusion coating his usual happy tone.

"Yes," Ev croaked out.

"I don't understand. Primary school photos can be bad I guess…"

"They were on my front doorstep this morning in an unmarked package."

"Oh. Yeah that can be strange."

"A bit."

"And you don't know who they're from?"

"No."

"We should talk to Sherlock."

"No!"

Her heart hammered against her ribs at the mention of his name. John looked over at her puzzled, not sure why she would so adamantly refuse help from his friend. Sure he could be a real ass, patronizing, condescending. Ok, maybe he could see why, but he truly was the most clever and intelligent man John had ever met and he could most certainly help her. The only question remaining, would he?

"Just, come on. If anyone can help it's him. Wouldn't you like to get all this sorted out and get on with living?" John asked, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"I don't think he'll want to help me," Ev confessed, why would he?

"Sure he will. Just come down to the flat and talk to him. He's not as unreasonable as people think. All right, maybe he is, but he'll help you."

Again, accepting defeat, she agreed. Her nerves ran rampant as she handed John he car keys, allowing him to drive them to the flat he shared with Sherlock on Baker Street. Scenarios floated through Everleigh's mind as John maneuvered the streets of London. Sherlock being angry John had brought her to their home, Sherlock disgusted when he saw her, Sherlock not even acknowledging her presence when her and John walked in. Each thought worse than the last, all of them ending in disaster. She began rehearsing exactly what she was going to say to him, knowing full well she lost the ability to speak when he was around. She would keep it brief and to the point, but descriptive enough to hopefully catch his interest. Yes, this would be easy, right?

John parked the car beside the curb around the block from their flat. Everleigh felt the butterflies begin their flight in her stomach as they walked through the bitter night air to the wooden black door with a gold 221B labeling it. John fiddled with his keys, his numbing fingers making it difficult to pick the correct one off of the ring, finally getting the door open. A blast of warm air surrounded the pair as they stepped into the building. John led Ev up a slight of wooden stairs to a landing with a door wide open, the sounds of a violin wafting out of the flat. The song was beautiful and enchanting, all the anxiety Everleigh felt slowly dissolved at the perfect notes that floated in to her ears. Both her and John rounded the corner into the flat. The first thing Everleigh saw was Sherlock standing in front of the window, a violin perched between his chin and shoulder, long fingers moving the bow gracefully across the strings. The tune continued as John put his keys on a table and took his coat off, Sherlock seeming not to care about his flat mate's arrival. He had on a white button down shirt with his usual slacks, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. She was completely transfixed by him. All of her worries were forgotten as his song surrounded her mind and his tall, strong stature kept her eyes frozen. She felt light and free the longer the three sat in silence, she wished for the moment to end, but of course it had to.

Sherlock turned as he took his violin off of his shoulder, eyes locking onto Everleigh standing in his doorway. He froze, what was she doing here? She looked frightened, tired, but better than she had the last time he'd seen her. Her hair was windblown, some of it twisted and clipped behind her ear. The sight of her always caused a slight stirring in his abdomen. She looked quite lovely as she stood nervously by the door.

"Where's John?" Sherlock asked, knowing if she were here he would be too.

"Here," John called out from the kitchen.

"What is she doing here?"

"She may have a case for you."

Sherlock's eyes snapped back over to her, softening as he stared at her, "What is it?"

Attempting to muster all the courage she had practiced she rediscovered her ability speak, "I think I have a stalker."

"Boring."

"Sherlock!" John yelled from the kitchen, poking his head around the doorway, his face pulled down into an angry scowl.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "What?"

Everleigh watched the silent exchange between the two men, John scolding Sherlock with his eyes and urging him to be polite and help while Sherlock looked on in annoyance.

"Fine. There's a place down the road. Dinner?" Sherlock asked, turning his eyes back to Ev, making her breath hitch in her throat.

* * *

_A/N:_ _ _I'm looking for a good Loki fanfic, if anyone knows of any please let me know!_ _

_Thanks for reading/following/favorites! Please review :-)_


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"When I first met him, I knew in a moment I would have to spend the next few days rearranging my mind so there'd be room for him to stay."

-Brian Andreas

* * *

Sherlock and Everleigh sat in a booth in the corner of a small Italian restaurant. Sherlock, of course, knew the owner and their meal was free, something about Sherlock getting him off a murder charge. Sherlock hadn't ordered any food, reminding her that he never ate while on a case. Ellie had protested his decision, but it was useless. John had been shocked when Sherlock had told him he was taking Ellie out alone, rendered completely speechless actually, giving him just enough time to escape the flat before he could ask any questions.

Dim, orange light cast shadows across his chiseled face, accentuating his features with precision. His gaze was fixed upon her, hard and strong, making focus a rather difficult act to practice; grey on brown. She tried her hardest to keep her eyes locked on him, her heart hammering and breaths coming out in traitorous little gasps. He knew the effect he was having on her, and it brought him a great sense of amusement. She was trying so hard to mask it too. He liked the way her eyes darted to the side but came back to stare into his in an attempt to remain strong, and how her fingers tapped rhythmic little beats on the table in nervousness. She was so very intriguing to him in a manner he didn't quite understand. He watched her eyelashes brush her cheek when she blinked, the jumpy rise and fall of her chest with each breath and felt her tapping foot gently rocking the table back and forth. And then there it was, the perpetual sadness in each chocolate brown eye. Where did it come from? Had it always been there?

"So, tell me everything, from the beginning," he instructed, finally breaking the awkward silence settling between them.

The world seemed to be moving in slow motion around them, fading into the background. The only thing she found herself capable of concentrating on was Sherlock, his eyes, his hair, that coy little grin plastered on his distinguished face. The sound of his voice resonated around her, blocking out every background noise into tiny muffles, they didn't matter, not anymore. She took a deep breath and told him what he wanted to know. When the phone calls began, their frequency, the time of day the normally occurred, and finally ending with the envelope of photos found on her doorstep that morning. He'd looked on with what seemed like interest as she quickly rattled off the facts, his gaze never swaying from hers, his brows furrowing the longer she spoke.

"Why?" he asked a soon as she'd finished talking.

"Why what?" she responded, confused.

"What's the  _purpose_?"

"I, I don't know."

He groaned in frustration. This wasn't going to be as cut and dry as he'd hoped. There had to be some cause for this she wasn't telling him, that dark secret she was keeping hidden. He needed to know it, he wanted to know it, the thought plagued him, what couldn't he figure out about her?

"What aren't you telling me?" he accused, anger growing in his voice.

"Nothing! I've told you everything," she ensured him, her voice shaking.

"Your parents, tell me about them."

"My mum died when I was 5 and my dad wasn't really around. I lived with my grandparents."

"What did they do?"

"Who?"

"All of them!"

"Uh, my dad was a salesman, my mum didn't have a job and my grandparents own a little café in Manchester."

"You're dad, why did he leave?"

"I don't know."

"What do you know?"

"I've told you everything I know!"

He glared at her and for the first time he saw a little fire in her eyes. There she was, he thought, that mask of fear finally gone. She didn't look like the little coward she'd made herself out to be, and he liked it. Her eyebrows knit together in the center, her mouth pressed together in a hard little line, he felt his own lips turning up into a little smile. Her shoulders were straighter, she looked quite fearsome, and beautiful. Oh there was so much more to this woman than he thought, so very much more.

"You should get angry more often," he told her, leaning back into his chair.

"Why on Earth would I do that?" she snapped, the ferocity in her voice causing him to smile.

"It's quite becoming."

He watched the dance of emotion on her face; anger, confusion, slightly pleased, then back to angry. She was becoming more entertaining than the television, and so much less predictable.

"So tell me about you then, you must know something about that," he asked, surprised by his own genuine tone and meaning.

"What?" she replied, just as shocked by his question as he seemed to be.

"You. Tell me about, you."

"What do you want to know?"

'Everything' he thought. Well that was odd, where did that voice come from? Certainly not from him, or was it? The last thing in the world Sherlock cared about was getting to know people, well he practically knew everything about a person from one look, but she was different. He knew of her, but not about her, not really. She had so much more hidden inside that wasn't visible to the naked eye, or even his eye. It was only to satisfy his growing curiosity and need to know, wasn't it? His growing infatuation with this woman was alarming; he hadn't even felt the need to learn this much about Irene Adler, the woman who'd  _almost_  beaten him. She'd been a complete mystery at first, but the urge to learn about her was nowhere near as great as his absolute need to learn about the woman sitting in front of him. She was so normal, but not. Not in the slightest. She didn't have any kind of intellectual superiority, or threat, she wasn't trying to kill people, or steal anything, she was just a typical, everyday woman. No, it was how he felt inside that urged him to discover every secret, every fact, and every flaw. Yes she was normal; it was this feeling that was not.

"Anything," he finally said aloud, quieting his mental battle for a moment, "Why do you always look so sad?"

"What?" she was completely taken aback by his question, she hadn't known she looked sad  _all_  the time.

"Forgive me, that came out wrong…"

"Do I? Do I look sad all the time?"

"Yes."

Her eyes sank, and for the first time in his life Sherlock felt a pang of regret hit him, hard. His heart hurt as he looked at her, the way her face fell and her shoulders slumped. All evidence of the form she had just held moments before, gone. He wanted to reach out to her, take her hands in his, and tell her he was sorry, so sorry. The thoughts traveled through his mind in rapid overdrive, each more foreign than the last.

"Ellie, I'm sorry," he confessed, laying every speck of regret he could into the statement, an act so very alien to him.

"I don't know why, I just am. Nothing seems to ever go right," she confessed, her eyes locked on the table, "I feel like the world is against me sometimes, the moment I find some shred of happiness it gets ripped away."

"The enemies are inside the walls, Ellie."

His words ran its way through her like wildfire. The enemies are inside the walls. She knew the statement wasn't supposed to have this effect, but it made her feel so utterly relieved she wanted to reach across the table and wrap her arms around his neck. He understood. He understood her struggle, and he empathized with it. He was right, it wasn't outside forces causing her grief and resentment, it was her own self-induced plague running rampant and destroying everything in its path.

"How do you run from what's inside your head?" she questioned, finally bringing her gaze back to his.

"You don't. You take that fear, that hatred, the adrenaline and put it into more productive practices," he answered matter-of-factly, his eyes the most enchanting shade of grey she'd ever seen.

"Such as?"

"Anything. Everything. There's a huge world of untapped knowledge out there that needs to be explored, discovered. But everyone is too afraid to walk out their front doors."

"How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Hide from the monsters in your head?"

"Who says I have any?'

He stayed unwavering on the outside, but on the inside he felt himself break down. The trap doors and hidden walls of his mind palace crumbled as the demons came out to play, the ghosts which Sherlock Holmes kept very neatly packed away, their cages held closed by cases and work. She brought out the very worst in him in would seem. He was feeling regret, remorse, and now his ever-sharp mind dulled as the dammed up memories replayed over and over and over again. The lonely days holed up in the library, playing pirates and Indians with the no one but the old tire swing that hung idly on the tree in the backyard. Mum and Dad yelling and fighting, Mycroft ushering him into their bedroom and tucking him into bed, promising everything was all right, but it wasn't. It never was.

"Sherlock?" a soft bell-like voice rang in his ears like music, he liked the way it sounded as it again spoke his name, "Sherlock?"

A soft, warm hand came to rest gently on his tightly clenched fist and like always, his mind quieted. He didn't understand this. He'd been touched by many people before unfortunately, but it never had any sort of effect on him, except perhaps repulsion. But as her hand gripped his loosening fist with a pure sincerity that Sherlock couldn't even begin to comprehend, he felt his mind fall back into place. It was almost like hitting the reset button on a computer. He didn't pull his hand away nor did he avert his gaze back to her face, afraid of the consequences of any action in that moment. He liked the way her hand felt on his, but he feared everything he began to feel inside. With a freshly cleaned slate, his brain focused entirely on her. He saw her, felt her, and breathed her in it seemed. Questions flitted across in jumbled fragments, his heart felt light and carefree and his body seemed to be, was that tingling? It didn't make any sense.

He seemed to be in some sort of physical pain, Everleigh thought to herself as she spoke his name aloud quietly. His face was contorted, his lips had disappeared into a tight impenetrable line, and his entire body was tense. She'd watched his open hand close into a tight fist on the table in the moments of silence following his question, who says I have any? You, in this exact moment, she thought as her concern for him grew the longer he sat in miserable contempt. The way he looked was so, self-loathing, and she couldn't stand to see him like that, he had no reason to, not right now anyway. She felt terrible for seemingly making him feel this way, but she had absolutely no idea how to console him. The only weapon in her arsenal a reassuring hand on a now loosening grip.

"I don't have any," he repeated, more to himself than to her.

"All right," she responded, refusing to pry into his psyche anymore, yet curious about what he had experienced, and what had turned him so cold.

His breathing seemed harder, his face was unemotional, but his eyes were fearful. She kept her hand on his, giving him another reassuring squeeze. He looked down at their conjoined hands sadly, his mouth down turning into a frown. This felt right, but it was wrong. It had to be. All lives end, all hearts are broken, caring is not an advantage Sherlock. The words of his brother echoed in his head, he'd grown up hearing those words and he'd never before doubted them. But he doubted them now; he'd doubted them weeks ago when she'd helped him in the hospital. Never let your heart rule your head. He pulled his hand away from hers slowly, relishing in every last moment of contact with her, his hand feeling ghostly cold and lacking as he placed it back into his lap.

"Well, I need more information to be able to help you so when you've got some, you know where to find me. Phone records would be helpful, from when the calls began," Sherlock instructed, his air of business back about him.

"Yes," Ellie replied softly as she slowly pulled her rejected hand back into her own lap.

"Sorry about dinner, I must be off though."

"Right. I can drive you home if you'd like."  
"That won't be necessary, a cab will do just fine. Have a good evening."

"Sherlock, I want you to know, that if you ever need anything, anything at all, don't be afraid to ask."

He nodded to her. It was a strange thing to say, no one had ever said anything like that to him before. Not many people had ever given his wellbeing a second thought. Most people loathed him, but she didn't. He'd been himself since the day they'd met, and she accepted him as he was. So it would seem. There was so much more that she didn't know, and she never would if he had his way.

His black coat swirled around his legs as he turned to march out of the restaurant he'd directed her to no more than an hour ago. He needed time to think, alone. She watched as he walked out of the restaurant, her eyes following until he was out of sight.

Sherlock decided that a walk home might do his body and mind good. The chilling air cooled his burning face, the light misting rain catching in his hair like dew drops. He ran through what Ellie had told him about her alleged stalker. The blocked phone calls, the photos, and he got an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach. While this appeared to be a basic, dull stalking case, something felt off, his intuition told him that there was much more to this than what met the eye. He knew for certain there was still something she refused to tell him. Her infuriated reaction to his prying gave her away. He always trusted his gut feelings, and at that moment it was telling him there were much more sinister forces at work here than a simple stalking. An eerie sense of familiarity set in, as if he'd investigated a case just like this before, but he couldn't quite put a finger on it.

Everleigh stood up from the table, trying to overcome the disappointment she felt at how the evening had ended. She'd enjoyed the small amount of time she'd spent with Sherlock and wished it had gone a little better. She hadn't felt more herself in years, more whole. Seemingly, the dark brooding detective filled a void in her she didn't know she had, until he left again. It was difficult to put into words, the way he made her feel, but safe was one that came to mind. When she was with him she felt like there was nothing in the world that could take her down, except of course Sherlock himself. Maybe that was where her sense of security came from; the fact that with him, her biggest fear was his rejection. It didn't matter if a crazy stalker was standing right outside the door, she would be too occupied with keeping Sherlock Holmes interested than caring about what would happen to her as soon as she stepped outside.

Wrapping her coat tightly around herself she stepped out into the cold London night, taking in the lights from the buildings that seemed to touch the sky all the way down to the cabs flooding the busy street. She loved the way the city sparkled. As her eyes turned back down she saw a sleek black car pull up to the curb and stop directly in front of her, the door opened and a woman, her eyes glued to her mobile phone stepped out. She was young, with long dark hair and a pretty face, dressed in business attire with an air of arrogance about her.

"Dr. Braxton, there's someone who would like to speak with you," the woman spoke, her eyes not coming up from the faintly glowing screen.

"Who exactly?" Ev asked, taking a step backward as her phone went off with a number she didn't recognize.

"I'd answer that if I were you."

"Hello?"

"Hello Dr. Braxton. I'd like to ensure you I mean you no harm, I only wish to speak with you. Please get into the car," a man's voice sounded from the other end, one she didn't recognize.

"Who are you?"

"We'll discuss that when you get here, please, get in the car."

"Why should I?"

"Because I'm asking nicely. If you'd respond better to threats, that can be arranged."

Ev went silent. Why did Sherlock have to leave? Fear guided her motions as she took a step towards the vehicle, coming to terms with the fact that she had no other option. The woman smiled before climbing back into the car, leaving the seat nearest the open door for Everleigh to sit in.  
"Thank you Everleigh. See you soon."

* * *

 _A/N: I really liked this chapter. I hope you did too! Let me know!_


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

"Every person, all the events of your life, are there because you have drawn them there. What you choose to do with them is up to you."

-Richard Bach

* * *

The unease in the car was so thick you could have cut it with a knife. Everleigh had no idea where they were going, who they were going to meet or why. The mystery shrouding the entire situation had sent her heart into overdrive. She was sweating lightly, her scarf seemed far too tight around her neck and her hands just wouldn't hold still. Blood trickled lightly from a small bite on her lip, always her nervous habit, a coppery taste biting at her taste buds. She assumed that all this was unrelated to the phone calls she had been receiving, seeing as the man she was going to see now didn't hide behind a mask by blocking their number, which made the entire scenario even worse. Everleigh got the feeling however that if she were to call that number again, it wouldn't go through.

"Where are we going?" Ev finally chimed, turning her head to the woman sitting beside her.

"Can't tell you," she responded, her eyes still fixated on her phone.

The road was pitch black, as if someone had conveniently turned out all the street lamps if there even were any. Everleigh had no idea where they were, how long they'd been driving, or even the direction they were heading. They mind as well just should have put a bag over her head; it would have had the same effect, except perhaps that would have been a little more unsettling. The road blurred past, never slowing, never ending, Everleigh's heart beat faster and faster with each passing second. The lack of acknowledgement from her cryptic guides was even more disconcerting; although they appeared to be harmless the creeping suspicions left her fidgeting and wary.

The car finally came to a stop and the dread fell like an anvil into Everleigh's stomach. The two back doors of the car opened simultaneously allowing both women in the back to crawl out into what appeared to be a car park for a very abandoned warehouse building. Things had definitely taken a turn for the worse; she was going to be murdered. What other explanation could there possibly be? Different plans ran through her mind, run, call 911, send out an SOS text to whoever's phone number was the most readily available, but before the opportunity arose to attempt any of them, the brown haired woman's eyes finally left her phone screen and met Everleigh's.

"This way," she instructed cheerily, turning on her heel.

As the pair of women walked through the heavy steel doors and into the dreary, haunting building the only sounds Everleigh could hear were the clunking of her and her leader's heels and the thumping of her own heart in her ears. The building was abandoned, just as she'd suspected. She could faintly make out graffiti plastering the otherwise barren walls as the lights above their heads flickered, casting ghostly shadows around the pair. The hallway seemed to never end as she was led deeper and deeper to what she was very certain was an untimely death. At least she'd been able to talk to her grandmother one last time, she'd seen John and even had a somewhat pleasant evening with Sherlock, that was about as pleasant as he could get she thought. Would anyone find her? What were these people going to do with her once they killed her, leave her there? Throw her in the river? She certainly wasn't looking forward to this mildew ridden air being the last breath she'd ever take, but that was a trivial detail compared to what she should be worrying about.

"In here," the mystery woman sounded as she stopped outside of set of double doors, her eyes again locked down onto her phone.

"Who's in there?" Ev asked, stopping on the other side of the doorframe.

"Can't tell you. He's waiting for you."

"You don't really expect me to go in there, do you? You want me to go willingly into a room with a strange man, in an abandoned warehouse in the middle of nowhere? This is the beginning of a murder-mystery Halloween special!"

"He's not gonna kill you. I don't think."

"Really reassuring. Thanks."

Suddenly, the doors beside them opened and Everleigh peered inside. The room was lit the same as the rest of the building, flickering white light, which illuminated a huge stone-floored room. There were water damaged storage boxes pushed up against the walls, all appeared to have been rummaged through long ago, and a forklift toppled over onto its side, all in all, it looked like something straight out the movies. Everleigh had just watched her fair share of horror movies, for which she was thankful for at this moment. Don't run up any stairs, keep your breathing soft and level and keep your clothes on, those seemed to be always be the downfalls of all the women in those types of films. The increasingly impatient woman across her nudged her head in the direction of the open room, jutting her jaw out in annoyance.

"Come in Dr. Braxton. I only wish to speak with you," a man's voice sounded from deep within the room, it was soft yet authoritative, not exactly the voice of a murderer, but they always were the one you'd least expect.

"Who are you?" Ev yelled back to him, her feet firmly planted on the cement floor.

"Come inside and I'll explain."

This was it. Everleigh swallowed hard and took what she very well thought would be her final steps. She walked into the center of the room, keeping her eyes moving trying to catch sight of who awaited her, but no one came. The room was silent, no sound or flicker of movement hinted to where her hidden guest loomed.

"Leave us," he boomed again from the shadows, the two men in the room walking out, leaving just Everleigh and her lurking interrogator.

"Where are you? Stop skulking about," Ev demanded, shocking herself with the courage that resonated in her voice.

As if right on cue, a man emerged from the shadows of back right corner. He was tall, a little plump, with reddish brown hair and a mischievous little grin plastered on his face. He carried an umbrella in his right hand, which he used as a sort of walking cane it appeared. He looked very official and important from the way he dressed, and the way he carried himself. He didn't look like any sort of threat; she could easily outrun him even in heels if the need ever arose. He stopped a comfortable distance away from her and she couldn't help but think that little smirk on his face looked awfully familiar from the way his lips curled to the arch in his eyebrow.

"Who are you?" Ev asked, keeping her voice strong and unwavering.

"That's not important. I hold a minor position in the British government," he answered coyly.

"What do you want with me? I haven't done anything wrong."

"No, no. I only wish to know you're involvement with one Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock? Why do you care about Sherlock Holmes?"

"No particular reason, I'm only an interested party. What is your connection to him?"

"I don't have one. I barely know him."

"Yet you've been out to dinner with him this evening, visited his flat and him to yours, he's even gone to see you at work. St Bart's, am I correct? Emergency Department?"

"How…"  
"It doesn't matter how. I just know. Enough with the boring questions Dr. Braxton, please just answer mine and we can all be on our way."

If Everleigh had felt uneasy before, it was nothing compared to what she felt now. This man knew more about what she'd done in the last few weeks than she could remember. The creeping suspicion that this was who was leaving her calls and photos was becoming more and more real. Yet instead of drowning in the terror that crashed into her mind, she pushed herself up and felt a new courage break through the dark barriers. Her back straightened and chin raised, it was time to take a stand against her own self-loathing as Sherlock had pointed out just an hour ago.

"I don't have any involvement with him. I'm a friend of his flat mate's, John Watson," she told him; although it wasn't the entire truth it was a version of it.

"Ah yes, Dr. Watson, the soldier. You and him seem to share a similar quality. Loyalty to those who have not earned it," he replied, his face turning to one of disappointment, "I have a proposition for you, it's very simple, and it garners a very handsome reward."

"And what's that?"

"All I ask, is that you report in to me on a regular basis about the well being and activities of Sherlock Holmes."

"You want me to spy on him?"  
"Well there's no need for such harsh terms. I like to think of it as concern."

"What makes you think he would even let me around enough to get you whatever information you wanted?"

"Oh I think it's safe to say he would."

"No."

"I haven't even told you my offer yet."  
"I won't spy on him for you. You seem to be very good at doing that yourself."

"Yes, on people like you but Sherlock Holmes is much more difficult, as I'm sure you can imagine."

"Is it you? Calling me all the time from blocked numbers, leaving unmarked parcels on my doorstep?"

"I'm afraid not, although I am aware of your little, problem. If the need arises, I would be able to help you, but you have to help me in return."

"So that's it then, your help in exchange for a play by play of Sherlock's life?"

"Essentially."

As much as Everleigh wanted to turn this asinine proposition away, it was a very tempting offer. On one hand what if Sherlock couldn't help? Or wouldn't? She would need someone, and could this man really stop the endless harassment? On the other, spying was wrong on every basic moral level and Everleigh highly doubted this request was based on 'concern' as he had tried to convince her. But what did he care about Sherlock Holmes? He wasn't a threat, if anything he must be some sort of relief, getting criminals off the streets, solving murders. Did Sherlock know something? Had he figured something out? If anyone could uncover secrets on the British government it was certainly Sherlock Holmes, so the likely answer was yes. In her heart, she felt a deep-seated loyalty to Sherlock; in no way did he deserve to be taken advantage of. As brilliant and perceptive as he was, his knowledge of relationships and social etiquette were sub par. She knew that a small piece of him trusted her, and that tiny faith needed to be upheld and cherished, for it was not given away lightly. No, this man was wrong, Sherlock deserved every speck of loyalty that she and everyone else held for him. He trusted them and any sever in that trust would quite possibly break him.

"Well? What do you say?" a smooth voice interrupted Ev's train of thought.

"No," Ev spat, pulling her shoulders back and bore her eyes straight into the person across from hers.

"Pity. Just so you know, Sherlock Holmes is a dangerous man. Cunning, manipulative; he has neither compassion nor capacity for emotion. He is an intellectual savage, willing to sacrifice whatever is necessary for the solution to his latest puzzle. The only thing Sherlock can do for you, is destroy you slowly, tear you apart piece by piece until he's unraveled you to the deepest level. It would be in  _your_  best interest, Everleigh, to stay as far away from him as you can."

"Why should I believe you?"

"I've known Sherlock longer than anyone. Deep down you know it's true; he is dangerous. Take care, Dr. Braxton."

Everleigh watched as the still unknown man walked back into the corner he'd emerged from, leaving her with even more questions than she'd come in with. Behind her, the steel doors opened once more and the familiar clunk of the young woman's heel became audible. As Everleigh moved to turn and walk out of the room and hopefully back to her own car and her own flat, her phone vibrated in her pocket.

 **In case you need anything.**

 **-SH**

A smile erupted on her face, unhindered and warm. Her chest swelled with happiness as she placed her phone back into her pocket. No, Sherlock Holmes would not be her downfall, he couldn't be. For the first time in a long while, Everleigh felt hope for the future, she felt happy and real and Sherlock Holmes had a part to play, she didn't know what that role was but he was apart of this. She turned to look at her guide but her smile didn't waver, the nervous jitters were gone and a renewing strength had taken their place.

* * *

 _A/N: So, (!) Benedict (!)…. That was me that talked to him on Jimmy Kimmel! It was embarrassing and nerve wracking, but hearing that man say 'thank you very much' to me melted my heart! Now you all know what my silly, fangirling face looks like! Haha._

 _Hope everyone liked this chapter, it's short and no Sherlock_ _ **sorry**_ _, but I love Mycroft! I hope I kept him true to character I did research before hand! And I like Ev with a backbone! ;-) Please Follow/Favorite/Review, I love them so very much._ _Don't forget the story blog! It'll be getting more active as the story progresses! And you can always ask questions there! Everleigh-rose on tumblr!_

 _How does anyone feel about a Cabin Pressure fluffy little number? It'd be short and cheesy, but maybe fun?  
Sorry for this long drawn out message I'm sure no one has gotten through! Lol._


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

"There is a space between man's imagination and man's attainment that can only be traversed by his longing."

-Khalil Gibran

* * *

The hospital halls were eerily quiet as three men swiftly made their way through them, a sense of urgency guiding their feet. Lestrade looked very unsettled, which left John even more unnerved. It took a lot to get that man nervous, and whatever was going on had set the Detective Inspector into a bit of a frenzy. John removed his phone from his pocket as soon as they reached the double doors of what he assumed was their destination and sent off a quick text message.

"Where is it?" Sherlock asked sharply, removing his fingers one at a time from his black leather gloves.

"In here," Greg Lestrade instructed, as he pushed the door to the morgue open.

"Has anybody touched it?"

"Well yes, the paramedics probably. And Anderson and his team."

Sherlock scoffed, "Useless. No wonder you had to call me."

John rolled his eyes. Nothing would ever please that man. He followed Sherlock into the morgue, Lestrade leaving to talk with forensics outside. They'd been called not more than a half an hour ago about a potential case, perking Sherlock right up out the strange daze he'd been in for the past week. He'd been quieter, and his complete disinterest in the world around him seemed to have worsened. A feat that John thought was impossible. He never knew Sherlock Holmes could be more introverted than he already was. Whenever John inquired about Sherlock's dour mood, he always got the same response, 'bored'. But sitting around mulling in misery wasn't a normal practice for a bored Sherlock Holmes. He shot holes in the wall, or organized dog hair alphabetically by breed in the bathroom, never did he sit with his hands steepled in front of his mouth for hours on end without even a whine or complaint. It was that last part that really had John stumped. Sherlock hadn't moaned or griped about not having any work to do.

"Hello!" a cheerful female voice greeted from the doorway, her petite blonde head sticking just past the threshold.

Sherlock's eyes darted over to where she stood, his back straightening and eyes growing wide at her unannounced presence. With her entrance he felt a rock drop into his stomach and his chest tighten. But it wasn't in dread or fear, it was excitement. His cheeks grew hot and no doubt red as she walked into the room, a small toothless smile decorating her porcelain face. He swallowed hard, remembering why he was there, dead body, stolen relic. A case, something to put his mind to work with, he was not there to be distracted by some woman in a skirt. Especially not that woman, he'd spent enough time on her already.

"Ah! Ev, nice you could drop by," John greeted, "What's with the outfit?"

"Filling in for a Family Practice physician. She called out sick, I could use the overtime," Ev answered, pulling her lab coat away from her body a bit to reveal knee length skirt and fitted white blouse.

"Well, you look lovely."

"Thank you. Hello Sherlock."

"Hello," Sherlock replied curtly, whipping his phone out of his pocket to research any other deaths recently matching this one.

Nothing. His next move was to try and scrutinize this body, which all the useful evidence had more than likely been cleared off by Anderson and his group of circus monkeys. The idiot's notes would be useless as well, it was no wonder no one could ever figure anything out without help down there. He removed the small magnifying glass from his pocket and began looking at every minute detail of the man's body before him. Ev watched him with a growing fascination. She marveled at the way he moved, so concise and gentle, his eyes darting from right to left back to the middle. She hadn't seen him in a week, not since he left their dinner so abruptly, and she couldn't deny the wave of contentedness that fell over her. She'd spent the last seven days replaying that night over and over in her head until she'd dissected every second of it. From the words he'd spoken to her, his movements, his anger and heartbreak, and then the strange journey to converse with a man warning her to stay away from Sherlock Holmes. She hadn't called Sherlock, or messaged him, even though the phone calls still plagued her phone and at night she could swear she heard footsteps outside her flat. A trick of her anxiety she had come to convince herself.

"Hey freak, Lestrade says you have two more minutes," a harsh woman's tone broke the inner thoughts of all three people standing in the room.

"Don't call him that," Everleigh immediately responded angrily, her eyes shooting to the dark haired woman in the doorway, staring with all the venom she could muster.

Sherlock's eyes shot up just soon enough to see the glaring contest between the two women. Ellie stood with her arms crossed tightly across her chest, shoulder's back and he could just make out how her jaw clenched and twitched. Sally Donovan on the other hand had a coy grin plastered on her smug face, a laugh pulling at the corners of her mouth. She thought she knew everything, she was infallible in her own mind. She hated Sherlock with a burning passion, and that feeling was mutual. She wasn't good at her job and she always insisted upon throwing her obsolete opinions around for the world to hear. Her and Anderson were a perfect fit for one another, if only Anderson's wife knew…

"You must not know him too well yet. He's nothing but a freak and a psychopath," Sally added, looking amused.

"He's not," Ev spat, taking a threatening step forward.

There was no hiding the fire in her tone. Sherlock kept his eyes locked on her as he felt a growing sense of pride. It was a rare event, someone defending him, someone  _caring_ about his image and quite possibly his feelings, which of course he didn't have; he never expected it from her. She barely knew him, there were facts about him that would make her cringe yet there she stood, fierce and steady footed, ready to fight. With one last mocking laugh, Sally Donovan left the three alone in the room.  
"What's her problem?" Everleigh asked, turning back towards John and Sherlock.

"She's always like that, she doesn't like Sherlock. Which I couldn't imagine why," John answered, raising an eyebrow to Sherlock who scoffed and continued his investigation, "Sherlock likes to constantly remind her, and another staff member at the Yard, that he knows what they do after hours. Isn't that right, Sherlock?"

"They shouldn't be so obvious about it," Sherlock replied as he turned the victims hand over before skimming his magnifying glass over the palm.

"She's a horrid woman," Ev commented.

Both Sherlock and John laughed at her blatant and very true comment. Sherlock couldn't deny he'd truly begun to like this woman. She was flawed, a little odd but she was genuine, and that was a rare thing to find nowadays.

"Oh, Ev, I wanted to ask you. We have a Christmas Party every year at our flat, on Christmas Eve. We wanted to invite you," John told her, looking back at Sherlock who seemed completely oblivious to the world around him.

"Oh, yeah, that would be great," Ev accepted, a warm smiling breaking out on her face.

"Great, yeah, good."

"Well, I have to get back to work, shift's almost over and I have a little bit of paperwork to do. I'll, see you two next week then. 221B Baker Street right?"

"That's the one."

"Nice seeing you both!"

With a small wave Ev left the morgue and walked back up to the Family Practice offices on the third floor, the flutter of nerves roaring to life at the thought of spending an evening in the company of Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

"Yes, hello, I need to speak Dr. Braxton please," Sherlock politely asked the Family Practice receptionist in the most charming voice he could muster.

"I'm sorry sir, she isn't seeing anymore patients today," the woman responded impatiently, her eyes not leaving her computer screen.

"I'm not a patient."

"Oh? Then who are you?"

"A friend, of a friends."

"Friend of a friend? Well, then ask your friend, to talk to their friend, and then, you'll be able to talk to her."

This girl was insufferable. Between her rude, patronizing tone and unwillingness to help him, he felt his anger growing. He reached into the window and grabbed the phone from its receiver and glared hard at the now terrified girl in front of him.

"Dial her office number," he demanded in a low and threatening voice.

The girl did as she was instructed, pushing her chair back from the desk as she stared at him fearfully.

"Ellie, hello, it's Sherlock. I need to speak with you," Sherlock greeted, pushing his anger at the insolent girl before him from his voice.

"Ok, come on back, last door on the left," Ev instructed, her voice chiming like bells even over the phone.

Sherlock placed the phone back where it belonged and bore his hard grey eyes into its owners, "That wasn't so difficult."

The girl shook her head at him before Sherlock opened the door and walked down the hall to the last office on the left. Her door was open and she sat in her desk chair, her lab coat draped over the back of it, leaving her just in her skirt and blouse. He felt his body tense as he took in the sight of her, her shirt hugging her in all the right places, her skirt pushed up a little past her knees, he'd never felt anything quite like what he felt in that second. There was a tugging in his lower abdomen and his face felt flush.

"Hello!" she greeted happily, getting up from her chair and standing only inches away from him, "What'd you need to talk to me about? I'm just on my way out."

"I wanted to check if you were getting any more phone calls or packages. I hadn't heard anything from you," he asked, watching as she donned her coat and scarf.

"I have actually. Didn't want to bother you. I have my phone records in my car if you'd like to walk out with me I can give them to you. Just printed them off today."

Sherlock nodded once, which she responded to with a smile. He followed her silently though the halls of the hospital, through the cold night air and into the parking garage where they stopped just beside her small blue sedan. She opened the passenger door and bent down to reach for something inside, giving Sherlock a rather good view of her backside. His eyes went directly down to exactly where he knew they should not, lingering only for a moment before he cleared his throat and averted his eyes a little too conspicuously. His head turned from side to side as he tried to look at anything and coincidentally everything else his eyes could possibly find.

"Are you all right?" she asked, looking at him so innocently through the corners of her eyes.

"Yes. Fine," he responded quickly and with a guilt-ridden voice, coaxing a small mischievous grin from the woman in front of him.

"Here you go. Those are from a few days before they started up until, this morning."

"Thank you."

Just as she was about to bid him goodbye, a buzzing from inside her pocket stopped every train of thought they had. Their eyes met, Sherlock's filled with anticipation and a little bit of thrill, hoping this could lead them one step closer to figuring out the mystery, while Everleigh's weighed down with fear. She pulled the phone from her pocket and sighed at the familiar BLOCKED NUMBER that greeted her.

"Answer it," Sherlock demanded, his senses heightening.

"What? No! Who knows who's on the other end?" Ev shouted back, her voice showing her true terror.

"It'll help me solve it. Answer the phone."

Everleigh swallowed hard, feeling the hard lump of dread that had balled up there blocking her throat. She must be crazy to be answering this, but Sherlock was right, maybe this could help him solve it.

She slid her thumb against screen and tapped speaker, "Hello?"

Sherlock's eyes grew wide, his head craned down to be closer to the phone in her hand but they were met with silence. Not even he could hear so much as a faint rustling on the other end.

"Hello? Who's there?" Sherlock spoke loudly and clearly, his frustration growing, "Answer me!"

"Tell us where he is," an altered voice sounded from the other line, whoever it belonged to didn't want his true voice to be heard.

"What are you talking about? Where who is?"

"She knows. Tell us where he is."

"I don't know what you're talking about! Who?" Ev yelled, her voice breaking, from beside Sherlock.

She hadn't noticed how she'd come to stand so close to him, their shoulders now practically touching. The phone beeped twice, signaling the call being dropped. Sherlock looked over to Everleigh standing beside him. He knew it. She was hiding something. She had to be. The look on her face was pure terror and he felt a terrible pity for her, but he needed an answer. She was scared beyond her wits. Her breath was coming out in little gasps, her hands clutched up against her chest.

"What are they talking about? Who are they looking for?" he asked her, placing a hand roughly on her shoulder shaking her from her terrified trance.

"I don't know. I really don't, I swear," she pleaded, her eyes brimming with tears.  
"You must have some idea. What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing! I promise! I have no idea."

He sighed. At least for the moment she was of no more use. His grip loosened on her shoulder but he left it lingering. He remembered how her soft, fleeting touches had helped him at times like this and he wondered if maybe him reciprocating that action would do the same for her. Her head bowed as the tears began to fall freely; this had all been far too much to take. She felt Sherlock standing beside her, and his warm hand still lightly atop her shoulder. He'd gone quiet, his lips pursed and his eyes focused on the ground, he looked rather unsure of himself. She liked the way his hand felt on her, it was large and covered her entire shoulder and then some, but it was warm and reassuring. Her body trembled in fear as her tears racked through her and without even thinking, she turned into the man beside her and placed her head softly against his chest.

His entire body tensed as her forehead came to gently rest against the right side of his chest. This felt very odd, but not wrong. His hand wound from one of her shoulders to the other, wrapping her in light embrace. He felt the pressure of her head against his body, a few stray hairs flying in the wind and brushing against his jaw and for the first time since he could remember, he felt something. The vacant hole in his chest where his heart should be seemed to swell, suddenly bulging with raw emotion and warm fluttering movements. The foreign emotions coursed their way through his veins, opening locked doors, releasing emotions he'd trained himself never to feel. And this he knew, would be his undoing. This was never supposed to happen, not to him.

Her head lifted as she realized the awkward position she'd forced him into. She wanted to stay like that with him forever, she felt safe, guarded from both the hazards of the outside world, and from herself. His eyes were locked in front of him, but he did not seem to be dreading this contact as much as she assumed he would. In fact, he seemed rather content. His face took on that almost boyish appearance, like when she'd seen him those rare times that he'd let his hard mask melt away, and at that an overwhelming sense of happiness washed over her. Once he'd realized she'd pulled herself from his chest he let his arm fall quickly back to his side, placing both hands in the pockets of his long, black coat, before he nodded a goodbye and turned on his heels to leave.

"I'll see you next week, Sherlock!" she yelled after him, a small smile pulling at her lips.

* * *

_A/N: Sorry about the last half of this one. It's terribly written, I'm so sorry. I've been deathly sick but I wanted, well needed, to get this out to you guys. The next one, it is a Christmas chapter! I know that there's only one Christmas in the actual series but I said screw it and made another one =)_  


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

"Have yourself a merry little Christmas,

Let your heart be light.

From now on,

Our troubles will be out of sight."

-Ralph Blane, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas 1943

* * *

From the street, Everleigh could see the yellow glow of the Christmas lights from 221B, silhouettes of the guests dancing in the window. It had been a long time since she'd been to any sort of Christmas party this was almost nerve wracking. Her fingers were practically frozen solid and her nose had begun to hurt from the frigid air, she needed to get inside. She remembered coming here almost a month ago with John, hearing Sherlock playing his violin, followed by an attempt at dinner with him. The butterflies in her stomach fluttered to life as she reached the front door and knocked softly three times.

"Ev! I'm so glad you could make it! Come in, come in," John greeted as he ushered her into the warmth, "Everyone's upstairs. Here I'll take your coat."

As John guided her coat off of her shoulders Ev could hear the enchanting sound of Sherlock's violin wafting from his flat upstairs. She smiled, remembering the soothing effect it'd had over her the last time and her excitement bubbled at the thought of seeing Sherlock, eyes closed in concentration, his arm gliding the bow so fluidly over the strings. It was truly a magical sight, his face serene as she could almost see the notes flowing from his mind down to his fingers, the music guiding every motion. As she walked up the stairs the song grew louder and louder, the slight murmur of people chatting muffling the beautiful notes.

When she rounded the doorway there was nothing on Earth that could stop a smile. Christmas lights hung around the mantle, twinkling white specks wound neatly around green tree garland, a table was set out with punch, eggnog and snacks and a wreath hung against the front of the door. But even without the festive decorations and people merrily lounging about, her heart would have still skipped a beat. Sherlock stood towards the back of the room, wearing a black suit and white button down underneath, not even Christmas could change that man's attire, his violin perched on his shoulder. Her memory had not done him justice she realized as she watched him play, frozen in the doorway, frozen in the moment. The world dissolved away, the only thing her mind could focus on was him, standing there, his curls, his cheekbones, the way his neck was tensed as his chin kept the instrument anchored down, his long, slender fingers lightly holding the wooden bow. He was so, beautiful. Ever since that day last week in the parking garage held loosely in his embrace, she'd realized how much she truly, wholeheartedly  _wanted_  him. It wasn't a small, fleeting attraction, it was so much more than that, deeper. She saw in him everything she knew she needed, he made her feel alive, he was strong but weak, cold yet compassionate and brilliant, he truly was a sparkle in a dull, grey world.

"Are you gonna go inside or…" John asked from behind her, snapping her eyes away from Sherlock.

"Oh. Yes, sorry," she exhaled in a huff realizing she'd been holding her breath.

There were only a few people mulling about the small flat, an older woman, Mrs. Hudson if she had to take a guess, John had mentioned her a few times. Then there was a younger woman with a sweet face, Ev had seen her around the hospital once or twice but had never learned her name. She was talking to an older man who she remembered from the day Sherlock had needed stitches above his eye, he was handsome and charismatic she figured by the way his face moved in conversation, either that or very drunk. John placed a hand on her lower back and led her into the room, introducing her around to Mrs. Hudson, as she'd guessed, Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade. She shook hands with all three before turning her attention back to the oblivious Sherlock. He had yet to break concentration, his mind obviously off floating in it's own little world, completely detached from the current environment.

"Hello again! It's nice to meet someone else who works at Bart's!" Molly Hooper exclaimed with a happy smile on her face.

"Ah! I remember you! You stitched that seeping gash on Sherlock up a few months back!" Greg added in before taking another sip of his very spiked eggnog.

"Uh, yeah. That was me," Ev replied nervously, "Um, excuse me, I'm so sorry."

The room had gone silent; Sherlock had finally awoken from his trance. She watched as he placed his violin down and took the opportunity. Weaving through the people and furniture, she made her way to stand beside him, his eyes meeting with hers as she dodged his armchair in front of the fireplace. She could swear in that moment his face softened as he looked at her, almost took on an expression of content, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. But that couldn't be right, could it?

"You play beautifully," she complimented as she reached his side, his eyes still staring at her almost tenderly.

"Thank you," he responded, shyly averting his gaze, his lips pursed with a slight embarrassment.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you that before?"

"Not for awhile."

"Well, you do. I'd love to play the piano with you on your violin sometime, if you'd like."

"You play the piano?"

"Yes, ever since I was a girl. Does that, surprise you?"

"No."

But the furrowing of his eyebrows and movements of his eyes told her it had. She was somewhat impressed with herself for two reasons, one, being that she did have some things about her that Sherlock did not know about. And two, she was finding it easier and easier to read him, to notice the little subtle hints of what was going on underneath the mask. She hadn't known him very long, but it seemed like she'd never known a life without him in it. She enjoyed this moment, standing side by side, in a comfortable silence. He greeted his friends, talked with them, all with her standing at his side. Whether it was because he'd forgotten she was there or he was just simply okay with her presence she didn't know, but she knew it felt right and hoped he was feeling the same.

A light vibrating shook her pocket as her phone went off, both her and Sherlock's attention shooting to the soft buzz. He looked down at her pocket and then up to her, silently reassuring her if she needed him, he was here. With shaking hands she reached into her pocket and turned the screen up and the name that lit the screen up brought more dread than any blocked call would have.

"Excuse me," she whispered, unable to mask the defeat in her voice.

"Ellie? What is-? Sherlock began but was unable to finish before she'd walked out of earshot, down the stairs and out into the falling snow.

He turned his attention to the window, her small form pacing in the white flurries on the sidewalk below. Even from a distance he could see her troubled expression and he could no longer ignore the feelings kindling beneath his chest. She had taken a hold on him like no person ever had before. He found his mind wandering to her in the dark, lonely hours of the night, the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed, the blond of her hair and the deep, unending sadness in her eyes. When she was around he felt the burdens of the world melt away, his body and mind relaxed, he felt  _alive_. She never pried, or asked unnecessary questions, and she accepted him for what he was. He could count the number of people he knew like that on one hand. No matter how hard he tried he could no longer deny his deep, unhinged attraction to her. He'd tried to reason with these feelings logically, but for once in his life he didn't have the answer. Attraction, love, those were just chemical reactions in the brain; a decrease in serotonin mixing with raging dopamine, pheromones and oxytocin, all working together to trigger reactions and give the mind the illusion of love. It was nothing more than perfectly formulated chemistry. But, science was not the answer to this, it couldn't be. He felt the urge to protect her, save her; just the thought of a frown cursing her soft, porcelain face was a crime. No, he could not downplay what he felt to neurotransmitters and libido, that was simple biology. These emotions, these feelings were not so simple.

His chest grew tight as his eyes stayed locked on Everleigh Rose down below, the snow swirling around her; it was truly a wondrous sight to behold. Her face showed no signs of relief from whatever troubles plagued her, and Sherlock could stand it no longer. Subconsciously, his feet guided him to the coat closet, and before he knew it his hand gripped the doorknob, waiting for the signal from his brain to turn it and head out into the winter night.

"Well I don't know what you want me to do… I can't just get in my car and drive all the way back to Manchester!... I'll call her in the morning… I'm sorry!... What more do you want me to say Hannah, I'm sorry… I didn't want to come home, all right! Is that what you wanted to hear?... Oh you know bloody well why… I'm not making this about you and I, or him!... I'm hanging up this conversation is over… Don't care!... Piss off…"

Sherlock stood on the stoop of 221B, listening to the one sided conversation Everleigh held with whom he now knew was her cousin. He was starting to grasp the animosity the two women held for one another, and why. Although they were barely audible, Sherlock could hear the muffled cries coming from the woman not more than ten feet away from him. Her hand had come up to cover part of her face, the other wrapped tightly around her middle, as if she was trying to hold herself together.

"Ellie?" Sherlock finally spoke, his feet softly crunching in the accumulated snow on the sidewalk.

"Sherlock," Ellie responded, wiping her eyes quickly as she turned around, "Sorry I had to take that call."

"Are you all right?"

"Of course, fine, my hands are a bit chilly I suppose. It's cold out, made my nose run."

"And I assume then that it made your eyes water as well?"

"Oh look at that, I suppose it did."

A terrible attempt at a lie if he'd ever heard one, but that didn't matter. He watched as one final tear escaped the inner corner of her eye and lolled down her rosy cheek, leaving a glistening trail in its wake. It didn't belong there. Shaking, whether it was from the cold or the nerves or both, he raised a hand from inside his pocket and wiped the cold, wet droplet softly from her cheek. Her mouth dropped slightly and her breath caught in her throat as his gentle, warm thumb grazed her skin, leaving behind a crimson glow. His eyes were transfixed on her face, soft and inquisitive, the thoughts going through his mind faster then they ever had before. His hand lingered on her cheek, shielding it from the biting cold as he took another small step towards her, and then another. She couldn't move, or think, the only thing that mattered was Sherlock Holmes standing no more than three inches in front of her, his hand on her cheek, his eyes staring at her anxious and curious. She focused entirely on the man before her, fearing if her attention went elsewhere her body would betray her. She felt weak and vulnerable and excited. She wanted him. She  _needed_  him.

He didn't know why he was doing what he was doing, but he couldn't stop either. With exercised caution he slowly moved his nose towards hers. Her lips looked so enticing, pink and trembling, that perfect little dip in the middle. Her eyes averted to his mouth, the deep, prominent cupids bow, and she watched as it slowly parted from its lower counterpart, readying for contact with her own. Her heart was hammering in her chest, every nerve reaching up yearning for more contact but she stayed perfectly still, relishing in his hand on her face, her entire being surging with anticipation.

Their noses touched first, his breath hit her, warm and inviting before his lips enveloped hers ever so gently. Kissing was just pressure between two pairs of lips, two mouths moving in synchronization, he knew that, but this was so much more. There was no feeling in the world comparable to her lips molded sweetly between his, the way their noses pressed into each other and the invulnerability he felt swelling in his heart. It felt as if they Earth had stopped spinning, everything frozen around them, leaving them completely absorbed in nothing but the other. There was nothing that could destroy him in that moment, there was only her. Every crevice of his mind was filled with her essence; how her lavender perfume mingled with the harsh city air, her satin skin beneath his fingers, her plush lips entwined with his. If Sherlock Holmes were to ever believe in heaven, this would be the moment he chose to relive for eternity.

He pulled away slightly, leaving their noses and foreheads touching, her face shrouded by the clouds of smoke billowing from ragged breaths freed by their tremulous lips. The cold stung her now flushed and warmed mouth that still tingled and shook from excitement and longing. His nose still pressed warmly against the side of hers and one stray curl tickled her forehead as his eyes opened to peer into hers once again. In them swam an intoxicating mix of fear, adoration and happiness that would make even the hardest of hearts crumble.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his warm breath again hitting her desperate, lonely lips, "I don't know where-"

She didn't want an apology or an excuse or a reason, she wanted him, again. Lunging up onto the tips of her toes she softly joined their mouths again, a little harder this time. At first her vigor had shocked him, but within moments he let go of his resolve and responded. They started at a nervous, stumbling pace but it didn't take long to develop into a fluid, ardent waltz moving as effortlessly as the ocean waves hitting the awaiting shore. His hand climbed from her cheek to weave softly into the blonde hair on the side of her head, his other arm gliding swiftly around her waist, closing the remaining inches between them. In his arms she felt warm, safe, guarded, the way his hands felt against her back and woven in her hair lit a hunger inside of her she thought had long been forgotten. She felt him changing beneath her, his entire being relaxed and gave in to its more basic desires. As her hands came to rest on his chest Sherlock Holmes completely forgot everything, just for a moment. In those brief seconds he didn't care about cases, or murder, or who might be looking out the window, the only thing he found himself able to think about was pink lips, soft blonde hair and the small, trembling woman those things belonged to. But, all good things must come to an end.

The world trickled back into his senses and soon he felt the cold air on his cheeks and heard the bustling traffic passing by, snapping him out of the trance she had so easily ensnared him in. He focused again on the way her lips moved against his, so soft and delicate, and everything he knew he could not allow to happen. To a man who suffered with addictions, this had the potential to be the most debilitating of them all.

After what seemed like hours, but had realistically only been seconds, he quickly turned his head to the side, tearing his mouth from hers abruptly before stepping back, away from her grasp and too far for his searching hands to reach. All the tenderness in his eyes had disappeared, replaced again by his masterful, practical guise. He looked at her accusingly, yet apologetically and completely confused, the carnage of his internal battle fighting its way to the surface, the reflections dancing in the pools of stone grey.

"We should go back inside," he urged, straightening his coat, averting his gaze to anywhere but her.

"Ok," she responded, trying to hide the sadness of rejection in her voice.

But had he rejected her? Not entirely, he seemed to rather enjoy it for a moment. He had initiated it. So why did she feel like he despised her, regretted every second that had passed since he stepped outside? How could anyone regret what had just transpired? The way she felt her body had perfectly molded with his, each curvature of hers matching up flawlessly with every concavity of his, and they're lips falling together like two pieces of a puzzle. Perhaps she had imagined it, romanticized the first moment of intimacy she had experienced in a long while, her naïve brain betraying her yet again. As she entered the flat through the door he held open for her, she felt the pang of longing hit her hard as her shoulder unintentionally grazed against his chest. She could still feel the warmth and solid formation of it as she awkwardly placed her hands back in her pockets. They traveled back up the stairs and into the party, there guests seemingly oblivious to their absence. Sherlock quickly made his way back to the spot she had first seen him, picked up his violin and turned to face the window as his arm stretched out before him to bring the bow down onto the awaiting strings.

A lively tune soon erupted in the air of 221B Baker St, eliciting cheers from the all the people in the room, minus two. Sherlock and Everleigh spent the remainder of the evening sneaking unsuspecting glances at one another, never at the same time, confusion clouding both of their minds and a sneaking, haunting longing taking up refuge in their hearts. A quick dance with John enlivened her mood once again, but the joy was cut short as she saw through the corner of her eye, Sherlock looking on from the kitchen, his head bowed and his eyes filled with sadness. He couldn't quite explain why he felt the way he did, jealousy, or sorrow? As he watched his friend dance with her, the way his hand was placed ever so gently on her waist where his had been just an hour before, he wanted that to be him. He felt his chest tighten as her smile grew to touch her eyes, her laugh chiming like silver bells.

When ten o'clock rolled around Ev knew it was time to leave, work at seven AM was going to creep up very quickly. John had been so kind as to walk her out to her car, the snow falling a little heavier than it had the last time she'd been outside, and much lonelier.

"Thank you, for coming. It was a really lovely evening," John beamed from beside her, his eyes crinkling from the large smile broken out on his face.

"Thank you for having me. It was very nice," she replied, sending her eyes once more to the window of Sherlock's flat, swearing she saw a tall, thin shadow watching from a distance.

"You're welcome to come by anytime."

"Thank you."

"If you need anything tomorrow be sure to let me know, Sherlock and I don't have anything planned."

"I will thanks."

"Well, Happy Christmas, and good night."

"Same to you, Happy Christmas."

John lingered for a moment, his hands awkwardly swaying in front of him, before giving one last smile and heading back to his flat, the looming figure now gone from the front window. Everleigh lingered outside of her car for a moment, replaying the events through her mind again, stopping to remember every detail of those ten minutes outside with Sherlock. The soft kisses and exploring fingers, the way her entire body shook with anticipation and the feeling of her heart fluttering from her chest into her throat. Sherlock Holmes had found and filled every empty crack of her like water flowing into a barren riverbed. Just the memory of him sent her blood pumping a little faster. Her phone went off in her pocket as soon as she'd sat in her driver's seat, the gentle vibrations sending a shiver up her spine.

**Merry Christmas. –SH**

So all hope was not lost, she thought, as a large smile broke free on her face.

**Merry Christmas Sherlock.**

Up in the warmth of his flat in the confines of his bedroom, Sherlock Holmes sat in the dark, the only illumination the white glow of his cell phone's screen. One corner of his mouth turned up as he read the simple three words sent by the woman who plagued his thoughts and sent the ripples of doubt coursing through every pillar he'd erected long ago. As much as he knew he should, he did not want to end this, nor could he even if he did.

* * *

**_A/N: Ahh, so I'm really excited about this chapter, please please let me know what you think about it. Too soon, too late, too sappy, just right, anyone out of character. Feedback is appreciated!_ **

_ _


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

"I chose to love you in silence, for in silence I find no rejection. I chose to love you in your loneliness, for in your loneliness no one owns you but me."

* * *

The morning sun was bright as it filtered in to the flat through the front windows, the sound of the city awakening breaking the awful, taunting silence. Reminders of the festive gathering from the night before still lay scattered about the room, an empty glass here and there, pieces of ribbon and wrapping paper littered the floor and the lights round the mantle still twinkled, fighting to still remain bright in the daylight. Every remnant reminding Sherlock of what had transpired the prior evening, outside on the sidewalk. He peered out the window to that fateful spot, all traces of their footsteps gone, filled in by the night's freshly fallen snow. The world appeared as if it had never happened, but it had. And it had changed everything.

Sherlock had spent the night tossing and turning for every time he'd closed his eyes she haunted him. Her warmth, her soft skin, pink rosy lips and the way she trembled beneath him, she was intoxicating. His body ached for more of her and his heart grew heavy with each passing hour she was not near. But the facts remained he could not pursue this. No matter how much he wanted it, required it even, he could not put himself, or her, in the danger that came with any sort of relationship. It had already gone too far and it needed to stop before they went tumbling off the cliff past the point of no return. One problem remained, he did not know how to stop these thoughts, these desires pooling in the pit of his heart. There was no patch, or medication to help ease the suffering of this compulsion; this was something he needed to fight on his own. But whom could he talk to about this? John, absolutely not, he would be furious. Even an idiot could see how interested in her he was. Which brought up another interesting problem. Lestrade, he wouldn't believe him, Mycroft, not a chance. No, Sherlock was in this alone. He could just delete her number from his phone, not go anywhere near Bart's Emergency Department and forbid John from speaking about her, and from inviting her anywhere that he would be. Yes, that seemed easy enough. He'd forget all about her and the sweet taste of her lips and the feel of her gentle touches and the sight of her blushing cheeks before he knew it. And John would never have to know about what happened.

"Oh hello dear, Merry Christmas! I just came up to see if you needed any help cleaning. But just this once dear, I'm not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson offered as she walked through the open front door.

"I think I can manage, thank you," Sherlock responded, still wanting more time to continue his inner debating in peace.

"If you say so! Perhaps that pretty doctor can come by and help."

"What? Why would she? What would bring her here?"

"Oh don't be all bashful Sherlock, I saw you two outside last night, kissing in the falling snow. Just like a Christmas carol! She's very pretty-"

"No, no that wasn't me."

"It most certainly was. I do still have my eye sight Sherlock, that's one thing I still have going for me you know!"

Sherlock clenched his teeth. This situation just went from bad to worse. No doubt Mrs. Hudson would be telling her gaggle of gossiping friends all about it at tea later. And John.

"You can't tell anybody. Promise me you won't," Sherlock spoke sternly.

"Well all right dear, if you insist. Though I don't know why, people would be happy for you!" she replied, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Just, promise."

"I promise."

"It was a mistake. I'd had a little too much of Lestrade's eggnog."

"A mistake? Oh Sherlock, nothing that makes you happy is ever a mistake. You shouldn't be so afraid dear; happiness hides in the strangest of places and finds us at the strangest of times. You've just got to be brave enough to see it. Everybody needs somebody sometimes."

With a final pat to his shoulder she left his side and began bustling around the flat, clearing the memories of Christmas Eve away. The ribbons were tossed in the waste bin, cups placed into the sink, Sherlock sat, hands steepled in front of his lips, oblivious to the woman flitting about around him, instead focusing on the one inside his head. Emotion, it was such a fickle thing when discussed and described, but a torturous device when felt and distressed. He knew the answer to everything, except this. His mind told him to stop, this would destroy him, but his heart screamed to find her, hold her and never let her go. Never let your heart rule your head Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Sherlock sat in the small coffee shop around the block from his flat. The white walls, floors, and tables were overpowering and the smell of coffee and pastries hung heavily in the air. He waited patiently, a pot of tea centered on the small round table getting colder and colder by the second as his fingers strummed against the glass top rhythmically one after another. Thump, thump, thump, thump. This idea was terrible. He shouldn't be here. Thump, thump, thump, thump. No, this needed to be done. He couldn't keep living like this. Thump, thump, thump, thump. How was he expected to think when this woman weighed so heavily on his mind? His brain was for deducing and solving cases, not figuring out how to please someone else. Thump, thump, thump, thump. The arrival of his guest broke Sherlock from his train of thought, and made him completely forget his reasoning for inviting her there in the first place. All bundled up in a jacket, scarf and knitted cap, her hair sticking out in disarray around her rosy cheeks and cold reddened nose, the only thing his mind could focus on was the events that had transpired just over twelve hours before, and how much he wished it could happen again. The smile on her face as she spotted him in the back corner made him immediately regret his decision. He stood as she walked over, pulling her chair out for her to sit in before sitting back down in his own chair across from her.

"Hello, Merry Christmas!" she greeted as she poured tea into both of their empty mugs, stirring milk into both and small amount of sugar into hers, to which Sherlock took notice.

"Merry Christmas. Thank you," Sherlock responded as she slid his mug towards him, "I asked you here, so I could apologize for my actions last night."

"Oh. No need for that. It's fine."

"No, it wasn't. I'd had too much to drink and I wasn't in my right mind."

"I didn't see you drink anything."

So she was more observant than he gave her credit for. It was true, he hadn't had a sip of alcohol that night; his actions were wholly his own, drunk solely on the possibility of curing the haunting loneliness he felt in his heart. He would have been lying if he'd said he hadn't once considered what it would be like for her to be lying in his bed next to him, the soft sound of her breathing lulling him off to sleep, her reassuring warmth harboring him safely. She looked across to him, sipping her tea slowly, her warm brown eyes gentle and alluring.

"I don't want you to get the wrong idea-" he began, his tongue felt like lead as he spoke the words he did not want to.

"Sherlock, you can't break up with someone you aren't dating," she interjected, a small smile tugging at her lips as her eyes lost their sparkle.

"Break up?"

"Yeah, that's what it seems like you're trying to do. It's ok, I didn't think we were, or will..."

"I don't date."

"I assumed as much."

"It was a mistake. And I'm sorry."

A mistake? Hearing him say that was like a stab to her heart. She understood why he wouldn't want to continue it, to let it be just what is was, but hearing him say it was a mistake, that he regretted it, the words drained every ounce of joy she'd walked into that building with. It had felt so wonderful and right to her, and she'd thought it was the same for him, even if it was just a one-time thing. She placed her mug gently down onto the table, dropping her eyes from Sherlock's to the caramel colored liquid swirling lazily in the cup. Sherlock could see just how much his words had hurt her and he wanted to take them back, the look of rejection that had overcome her features was enough to break his heart in two. He didn't reject her, he wasn't, but what exactly was he doing then?

"By mistake, I mean, I shouldn't have done it, not that I, regret doing it," he attempted to reconcile, watching her features carefully, "I'm sorry if it sounded that way."

"No, it's fine. I understand, don't worry about me," she answered with a forced laugh and smile, her eyes giving away her true feelings.

"Well, if you need anything, regarding your case, you know where to find me."

"Yes. Thanks."

There was so much more he wanted to say, so much more he wanted to do but he had to leave. This was treacherous water he was treading in. Every second he looked at her led him closer and closer to where he knew he could not go. She was biting at her lip, trying to hold on to her resolve, and all he could think about was how there was a much better activity she could do with them. The more her teeth pushed into the sensitive flesh the more he thought about replacing them with his own now tightly clenched mouth, pouring his true feelings towards her out in actions instead of poorly chosen words and lies.

"I'm sorry Sherlock," she spoke as he rose out of his seat to leave.

"For what?" he asked, she had nothing to be sorry for.

"For what happened. For making you feel awkward, or putting you in an uncomfortable position, it wasn't my place to do that. So I'm sorry."

His face contorted in confusion, head tilting slightly to the side. She thought this was her fault?

"You have nothing to apologize for," he assured her softly, even he noticed how uncharacteristic his voice sounded, it was laced with concern and affection.

Her eyes finally turned up to him, she looked so innocent and fragile. This wasn't fair to do to her, or to himself. Why should he have to deny himself what he wanted? This mystery was not going to solve itself, but he couldn't justify her safety for his curiosity and confused emotions. People were after him. They would use her to get to him no doubt, was that a risk he'd be willing to take? There were already enough people in the crossfire thanks to him; he couldn't add another name to that list. The thought of her standing there before him, a bomb strapped to her chest, red laser dots dancing menacingly, and tears rolling from her doe eyes as Moriarty laughed in the background passed through his mind, he would never forgive himself if that ever came to pass. He leaned down and pressed his lips softly to her cheek. He couldn't help it; it was like instinct, incontrollable. She looked far too sad and he needed to change it, she didn't deserve this. He let them linger, relishing again in the feeling of her soft skin.

"You are the prettiest mistake I've ever made," he lightly joked with a small smile, pulling his face away from hers, his eyes averting down to the floor.

"I'll, take that as a compliment I suppose," she replied, her voice morose.

"I am sorry."

She didn't want him to be sorry she just wanted him. Even though his words spoke one thing, she knew his heart spoke another. His eyes gave him away; they weren't hard and piercing as they usually were, they were darker, softer, and sad. She wanted so badly to reach out and grab his hand, tell him whatever reasons he had for thinking any version of a relationship with her was a bad idea didn't matter. She didn't care how broken he was, or of the demons that danced in his head in the silence and dark of the night or even that he had no idea what he was doing when it came to women, she wanted to fight along side him, comfort him when he needed it, support him through every up and down. But the words didn't come out. She mustered a nod to his repeated apology and watched as he walked out the door, leaving her alone, how she knew she would always remain.

Sherlock walked out of the coffee shop fighting every urge he had to look back at her, but he knew if he did he would run back to her and would never leave. This was the right decision, but for being so right it felt so very wrong. The world whizzed by him, but he didn't see it, he didn't care. He thought back to what Mrs. Hudson had told him that morning, 'everybody needs somebody sometimes'. He did need somebody but not just anybody; he needed Everleigh. As he walked he felt like a rope was pulling him backwards, each step requiring more energy than the last to fight the resistance from going forward. With each step further away from her, sitting alone drinking cold tea, he felt his feet get heavier and harder to lift, every piece of him ached. He needed to turn back. This wasn't going to work. He couldn't do this for the rest of his life, avoid her, and pretend like she didn't exist. He couldn't even last five minutes, how was he expected to last another fifty years like this? It was impossible. Finally, he stopped the fight, stood frozen on the sidewalk, deliberating what his final decision would be.

* * *

A/N: A wee bit of a cliffhanger... 


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

"There is nothing on this Earth more to be prized than true friendship."

-Thomas Aquinas

* * *

The cold winds twisted his coat around his legs as he stood anchored to the pavement. He watched his breath coming out in puffs of smoke, bringing back the memory from weeks ago when he'd gone to Bart's with the sole reason of seeing her. Granted it was for a cigarette, but he realized that was the day that changed it all. That was the first time he'd really looked at her, not scrutinized her or studied her, but saw her and the true beauty that she radiated. It had also been the first time in his life that his mind had dulled, the screaming had stopped, and the wheels and cogs froze, all because her warm, trembling hand had fallen onto his forearm. At the time it wasn't out of affection or attraction, it was just to get his attention, but it'd had the same effect nonetheless. She had woven her way into his entire being, winding herself tighter and filling him slowly as the time passed, leaving him now with a heart beating to the drum of her own, which without her melody, was lost. Standing in the city he knew so well, only blocks from his own flat, Sherlock was lost.

He took off running, the icy air burning his lungs as he gasped it in, pushing his legs faster and faster. His feet pounded against the pavement as he pushed and shoved through the groups of people walking, not caring about their groans and insults they shouted at him, he needed to get back. The image of her broken face as he'd told her what they'd done last night had been a mistake haunted him, it wasn't a mistake, it was the farthest thing from a mistake. Finally the shop came into view and he pushed himself harder, running absentmindedly across the street, causing a cab to come to a screeching halt just inches from his knees. He stopped, putting his hands on the hood as the car's shrill horn echoed through the city, the driver shouting and displaying a good deal of obscenities at him, but he didn't care. He took off again, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of her, but as he reached the glass window the only thing he saw were empty tables and chairs. She'd gone. He was too late.

He entered in to the building, letting the warmth thaw his frozen cheeks and lips as he walked over to the table he'd just shared with her. A few notes still lay flat against the glass top, he'd missed her by minutes, no on had even picked up the tip she'd left.

"Sir, can I help you?" a red haired woman wearing a blue apron asked sweetly from behind him.

"The woman, that was just here, did she leave?" he inquired, hiding the franticness in his voice.

"Just a few minutes ago, were you supposed to meet her?"

Sherlock peered down at his wristwatch; if he got a cab quickly he may just be able to catch her before she went back to work. He could text her, or call her, tell her to wait for him, that he had more to say, but the adrenaline he had felt as he ran there had dissipated. The courage and surety in his decision was gone. He ignored the waitress' question; she was no use at this point. He turned to leave and as he did, a figure bumped straight into his chest. He looked down, recalling his first encounter with Ellie in his mind, how she'd run straight into him in the halls of Bart's, the first time he'd looked into her sad brown eyes, but an unfamiliar green greeted him instead.

"Sorry sir!" the girl apologized, running her hands over his shirt to smooth the creases her collision had formed.

Her hands running down his chest again brought a new wave of flashbacks from just hours before. Ellie's mouth moving with his, her cold nose pressed against his cheek and her hands set gingerly atop his chest, he could taste her lips and smell her perfume and it made his chest tighten. He shoved the girls hands off of him, shooting her a venomous glare before pushing past her and out again into the cold.

* * *

Sherlock and John lingered quietly in their flat, Sherlock on his laptop sifting for a case through the hundreds of painfully boring emails that filled his inbox while John searched for any form of edible food in their refrigerator filled with jarred eyes, fingers, feet, every kind of severed body part Sherlock could get his hands on. Sometimes John swore he was living in a morgue rather than a flat.

"I need something to eat. Are you hungry?" John asked his brooding flat mate as he slammed the fridge closed in defeat.

"No," Sherlock answered, drawing the 'o' out as he deleted another twenty emails.

"Fine. I'll see if maybe Ev wants to join me when she gets off work."

"What? Why?"

"Because she's my friend, and I enjoy her company, even if you don't."

"It's Christmas, no where is open."

"Lots of places are open."

"No they're not."

"They are Sherlock."

"We can just order take away then."

"Oh now you're hungry?"

"Yes. Order whatever you want. Take my card."

"What is going on?"

"Nothing."

"No, it's something."

John looked closely at the man sitting ten feet away from him; something was off. He still looked the same, talked the same, acted the same, but he wasn't the same man. Something had changed. He seemed softer, gentler, his motions were less sharp, and his features a little less acute and his entire being just seemed, peaceful.

"What happened last night? When you went outside?" John inquired, talking cautious steps towards his friend.

"Nothing," Sherlock answered, snapping his laptop shut and turning his eyes towards John.

"No, something happened. You're, different."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"It's something to do with her. That's why you don't want me going out with her. You, you like her!"

"No."

"Oh yes, look at your face! Sherlock has a crush! My God, I never thought I'd see the day."

"No I don't!"

"No? Then you don't mind if I take her out to dinner then. On a date. Just the two of us."

"Not at all."

"All right, good. I'm going to call her right now."

As John turned his back away and pulled his phone out of his pocket Sherlock felt his bottom lip twitch. She would say no, wouldn't she? She didn't like John, well she did, but just as a friend, she wouldn't go out on a date with him, would she? John had been trying to ask her on a date for weeks but she always changed the subject, but maybe now things had changed. Sherlock had shot her down and he hadn't had the chance to tell her his true feelings, maybe now she would accept a date from John. No, Sherlock at least needed the chance to make things right before she gave up on him.

"No," Sherlock begged as John's finger lingered over the call button his phone, taunting Sherlock no doubt to get him to admit his secret.

"Ahh. I knew it!" John exclaimed joyfully, pointing his finger.

"I kissed her."

"Wait, what?"

"Last night, outside. I kissed her."

John felt his heart drop into his shoes. He'd kissed her? All the humor in the situation had just taken a wrong turn and John found himself in a saddened stupor. All this time he'd been spending with her, trying his best to form some sort of relationship, learning about her, trying to make her laugh, being there when no one else was, and then Sherlock Holmes walks up to her on a sidewalk and kisses her like it's nothing. 'No big deal, I'll just come in with my long coat, collar up, and high cheekbones and sweep you right off your feet', he mimicked to himself as he felt his cheeks growing hot.

"What do you mean, you kissed her?" John asked, his voice hardened.

"I mean, I kissed her. I put my lips on her lips, a kiss John," Sherlock replied sarcastically, not yet caught on to his friend's growing anger.

"I thought women weren't 'really your area'? Isn't that what you told me?"

"Are you angry?"

"Yes I'm angry! You knew how I felt and you just, you completely disregarded it!"

"John she didn't want to date you, it was painfully obvious you could tell by the way sh-"

"I don't care how you could tell Sherlock! Stop being an ass and think about people's feelings for once in your life!"

"I did, think about your feelings-"

"Oh. Good. So then you just didn't care. Even better. Yeah."

"I'm sorry John."

"Little too late for that I'm afraid. God, how could you do that to me? I just, I don't understand."

Sherlock looked down to the floor, ashamed. This just kept getting worse and worse as the day went on. First Ellie and now John, perhaps next he could anger Mrs. Hudson, or Lestrade and make the circle complete. He couldn't understand why John was so upset, until he remembered how he'd felt the night before as he watched her dancing with him. The green of envy rising up in him as he saw his friend's arm where his own belonged, and the dull ache of sadness when he'd considered what it would be like to watch them together like that forever. He wouldn't have been able to bear it, and now he realized that that would be John, watching him with the woman he so longed for. He felt guilt rising him in his for the second time that day, and again, he had no clue on how to make it right.

"John, I, I'm sorry. I, I didn't intend to hurt you," Sherlock began, the words lolling clumsily off his tongue.

"I know. I know, but you did. And there's no going back now," John responded quietly and pained, "Are you happy? With her, does she make you happy?"

Happy? Was he happy? At this moment no, earlier this morning, no, last night, yes, when he first laid eyes on her today, yes, exceptionally happy. He remembered the burst of warmth that rushed through his veins at the first sight of her earlier that day, the way his mouth subconsciously had turned up into a smile when she'd first seen him across the room, and how happy she had looked in that moment as well. But now, he'd hurt her and his best friend; there was nothing to happy about, not at all.

"You messed that up too didn't you? You know for being one of the cleverest men in the world, you're an idiot. Do you know that?" John accused, making Sherlock feel even worse than he already did, "You need to go and fix that. Now. Before it's too late."

Sherlock looked up to John, his eyes wide. As hurt as John was by his actions, he still wanted to help him. Sherlock could see the anger etched into every line of John's face, but his eyes held a compassion that couldn't have been forced. John knew that this was just as hard for Sherlock as it was for him, but for very different reasons. John was certain that Sherlock had never experienced feelings like he was at the moment, it was nerve wracking and quite possibly frightening for him. Sherlock had been brought up loathing human contact and relationships, he saw them as petty and tedious, but something about her had unsettled him. He knew Sherlock must be questioning everything he thought he knew, every block he'd put up in his mind for emotions such as love and attraction were crumbling at a faster rate than he could keep up with and he hadn't had time to sort through everything rushing through his head. As much as he wanted to be angry with him, John couldn't abandon Sherlock at what most certainly was a time of need. He didn't have to like it, but he needed to accept it, Sherlock and Everleigh would embark on their own little adventure, leaving John in their wake. He knew Sherlock deserved this. He needed it actually, someone to teach him love and compassion, that was something John could not show him, he needed her, and she needed him. Together, they needed to put themselves and the other back together, John saw it, two broken souls magnetized to the tragedy of the others, hoping to find in the other what they themselves lacked. Everleigh saw Sherlock as a strong pillar, he was safe and his lack of emotion no doubt lured her in, a man who held regard to few people would no doubt be faithful to the ones he chose to surround himself with. John knew she saw Sherlock as a solution to her problems, the man who knew everything, who could fix anything, who could fix her. And Sherlock, he saw in her a mystery to be solved, an intricate puzzle that needed a brilliant mind to figure out, his mind. She wasn't a threat, she would never outwit him, nor would she ever bore of him, and her presence had had an ataractic effect on him. He was less tense, more relaxed than John had ever seen him. They hadn't had a case for days now but Sherlock had remained calm and collected which could no doubt be linked to his growing infatuation with Everleigh. But they also saw a reflection of themselves in the other, the pain and sadness hidden deep down, both of them had locked it away where they thought no one would ever find it, but they'd found it in each other. It reached out from the deep recesses of their hearts in the presence of one another and neither one could lock it away. John knew that this would end well, or terribly, and if it ended in despair, both of them would be destroyed.

"You need to go," John urged, gesturing his hands towards the door.

Sherlock rose from his chair nervously, what was he supposed to do, and say? He opened his mouth to ask John, but nothing came out, he needed to do this on his own. Ellie would no doubt be returning home from work any minute, and he would be waiting when she did. He went to coat closet and donned his signature scarf and jacket before leaping down the stair two at a time and waving a cab down on the curb.

John watched Sherlock from the window, a sad smile tugging at his lips. The poor guy had no idea what he was getting himself into and it would be certainly be interesting to watch it all unfold.

* * *

A/N: Tell me what you think :-)


	16. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

"And they slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered."

F. Scott Fitzgerald, 'Tender is the Night'

* * *

Everleigh searched her coat pockets for two very crucial things as she walked out of Bart's Hospital, car keys and cigarettes. This day had been absolutely dreadful. Patient after patient, Sherlock's rejection, more berating text messages from that darling cousin of hers, she just wanted to go home, turn on some music and enjoy a large glass of wine, maybe two. She welcomed the cold air as it blew against her face, placing a cigarette between her lips and lighting it, letting the smoke wash through her.

"Don't let Sherlock see you with those, he'll never leave you alone," Ev heard a familiar voice sound from her left.

Ev stopped and watched John rise from the bus stop bench and walk over to her, his face sad and his eyes weary.

"John," she greeted, "How long have you been waiting there?"

"Oh not long, I came to ask you a favor," he told her as he came to stand in front of her.

"Ok."

"Don't break his heart. Please."

The cigarette fell from between her lips as the air from her lungs was quickly exhaled in shock. Ever since the first time they'd met she knew John harbored some kind of feelings and attraction for her, and she'd selfishly led him on in her desperate need for a friend and confidant. She felt terrible about it to begin with and now, he was standing there knowing her true feelings instead fell to his best friend. She felt like she'd betrayed him, she felt guilty and ashamed, but her heart had been locked onto Sherlock Holmes since she first laid eyes on him, whether she'd known it or not back then she knew it now.

"I don't think that's going to be an issue," she assured John, thinking back to what Sherlock had said to her earlier that day.

"Just, promise me, you won't hurt him. No matter what happens or how you feel, please, promise me you won't. It would destroy him, completely," John confessed.

"I promise."

"Good. Yeah, that's all. Uh, have a good night."

"John, are you all right?"

"Yeah, fine. Perfect. Remember your promise, and don't smoke around Sherlock, he's supposed to have quit."

John gave her one final sad smile before walking quickly to the curb to catch a passing cab. Sherlock had talked to John about her? She had known that his words to her this morning hadn't been entirely truthful, but a rekindling of hope made her heart flutter in her chest, but it didn't change the anger she still felt towards Sherlock. He'd left her there after calling her a mistake, even if he didn't mean it had still had hurt. She'd been pushed off to the side, cast away like some lowly piece of trash enough times in her life, she didn't need it from Sherlock Holmes as well. Not now, not ever.

* * *

As Sherlock exited the cab outside of Ellie's flat, the first thing he noticed was her car was not parked outside. He'd beaten her there. Well now what was he supposed to do? He thought about sitting on her doorstep to wait, but he remembered there was a little corner market not far from her flat; they would have flowers no doubt. That was always a good way to apologize, wasn't it?

**Flowers? -SH**

**Yes. -JW**

With a satisfied little smile he placed his phone back into his pocket and took off in the direction of the store. He ran through every possible reaction to Ellie seeing him, well every one he could think of, happy, nervous, sad, and he thought about what his response would be. He had no idea what he was supposed to say; besides he was sorry, that he knew. He wanted to tell her how she filled his mind with light, how the sound of her name alone could silence the demons that danced in his head and how he'd never in his life met anyone like her. He wanted to ensure she knew how truly beautiful she was, inside and out, at her good and bad times, and how he wanted to be by her side though it all. This was a strange sensation, a renewing electrical current coursed through him, he felt limitless and impervious to any and all threats.

When he reached the market he walked in happily, greeting the elderly shopkeeper cheerfully before making his way to the floral section. There were so many to choose from, how was he supposed to know the right ones to get? There were roses, cliché and overdone, he needed something better. His eyes fell to bouquets of different varieties, daisies, daffodils, baby's breath, none of them were right. They lacked a certain, flair, which Sherlock felt his gift needed to have. As he turned his face away, a look of disappointment and disgust plastered on it, he caught sight of something hidden on the back of the rack. That's when his eyes saw it, the perfect array of purple irises, lilacs, white lilies and one large yellow sunflower held together by a thick, silken ribbon in a perfectly matching shade of dark blue. He snatched them up with excitement, yes, perfect, he thought, smiling triumphantly. He paid for his perfect choice and began the short walk back to her flat, desperately hoping she would be there when he returned.

As he approached, he noticed her car was still not there. He peered down at his wristwatch; she should have been home by now, even if there was traffic. His mind went through every option of her whereabouts each sounding worse and worse as he listed them. Left work late, stuck in abnormal traffic, out on a date, car accident, on a date, kidnapped, murdered, he ran a hand through his hair, he should have spent more time trying to figure out who was after her instead of exploring his own petty feelings. What if she was holed up somewhere, pleading for her life, praying for him to show up and save her? He spun around in a circle, looking for any clue to her current predicament. And then he saw it, a lurking black shadow creeping around the side of the building. She was in trouble, and no doubt that person would have every detail needed and Sherlock most certainly knew some very, colorful ways to get him to talk.

He took of running, his coat flying behind him as he bolted across the lawn and into the intruders pitch-black hiding place. He pulled his leather pouch containing his various tools of the trade from his pocket and removed the small flashlight. He cautiously and silently stalked around the building, searching for the trespasser. This man was going to regret every stepping foot on this property. Sherlock shined his light onto the ground, noticing the pattern of flattened grass leading around to the back of the building. He followed the trail and turned the corner, finally seeing the person he pursued. He dropped the flashlight and the flowers he'd purchased and sprinted over to the him, roughly grabbing him by the sides of his cheap, well worn jacket before throwing him around the corner he had just rounded and pinning him up against the side of the building.

The man looked terrified. He whimpered in fear as he kicked his feet in an attempt to get free. Sherlock studied what he could see of the man, smoker, hadn't been sleeping well, ex-military, 32 years old, five feet eight inches tall 170 pounds, worked construction. He certainly didn't seem like a criminal, not yet anyway.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" Sherlock yelled, pushing the man harder into the wall.

"Whoa, I, I wasn't doing anything, just, just looking for my girlfriend. I swear," the man stuttered back, his eyes going in every direction searching for someone to save him.

"Your girlfriend?"

"Ye-yeah, she lives here, she, she locked me out, I was just trying to get her attention!"

"You're lying. Who are you?"

"I'm, I'm not sir, I swear. Please just let me go, I won't press charges or nothing I promise, just please let me g-g-go."

Sherlock's nose wrinkled up in disgust, the man had begun to cry. He sobbed uncontrollably, his face twisted and deformed, god it was annoying. This was not going as well as Sherlock had hoped.

"Sherlock?" the sweetest voice he'd ever heard sang from his right, "Sherlock is that you?"

"Ellie," he breathed in response, completely forgetting about the man crying in his grip.

"What, are you doing to Randy?"

"Randy? Who's Randy?"

"The man you have pinned to the side of the building by his coat..."

"Oh. Him. We were just, talking, about, the weather. Lovely isn't it, Randy?"

"Oh yeah, re-really great," Randy stammered, nodding his head in agreement.

Sherlock lowered Randy down to the ground slowly, brushing the wrinkles caused by his vice grip out of his coat. Randy looked once more between Ev and Sherlock before running off at full speed and the pair watched him until he was out of sight.

"What was that all about?" Ev asked angrily, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Nothing. I was just talking to him," Sherlock replied nonchalantly, fixing his own coat now.

"Really? It didn't look like talking."

"Who was he?"

"He's my neighbor's boyfriend."

"Neighbor's..."

Sherlock hung his head in shame; of course she had a neighbor. This certainly wasn't going to help his chances of forgiveness. As his eyes stared at the ground he found his flashlight and the bouquet of flowers he'd bought, which were stamped into the mud, the petals scattered like confetti around his large prints in the ground. Well wasn't that just typical; he really did destroy every beautiful thing that came into his life.

"Would you like to come inside?" she asked, an unfriendly sharpness in her tone.

Sherlock nodded, not lifting his eyes to her, leaving his destroyed peace offering ruined on the ground. He followed her inside, all the courage he'd had before long washed away. She was not happy, nervous or sad to see him, she was angry. He hadn't prepared for this. Was she angry with him for attacking her neighbor, or for what he'd done earlier? Oh it didn't matter. As they entered in to her flat, Sherlock remembered the only other time he'd been there. She had been devastated, torn to shreds sitting on the floor, oblivious to the world around her, until he'd spoken. He remembered her glassy eyes snapping away from the window and turning to his where she saw straight down to his very core. He'd recalled the feeling like he was looking into a mirror that day; he saw a part himself in her, the self-loathing, harmful, dangerous side. Her wounds had healed and her walls rebuilt, but each time he looked at her, really looked at her, he could still see that darkness in her clawing to come out.

"Did you come here to apologize for your terrible mistake again?" she spat, her words stabbing him in the chest.

"I'm sorry-" he began.

"I don't want anymore apologies Sherlock!"

Her anger caused him to flinch. He squeezed his eyes shut and tucked his chin to his neck. She noticed how her tone had affected him and she regretted it immediately. He appeared as if her words had broken him. She remembered her promise to John from earlier that night and now she was really beginning to understand why he'd asked it of her. She saw Sherlock's fragility, and the power she held to shatter him. She didn't want to hurt him, under any circumstance.

"I want honesty," she finished, stepping to stand inches away from him.

"I'm not used to people caring about me," he stated sadly, keeping his eyes closed.

That statement broke her heart, she felt a tear form in her eye as she watched his face twitch; his lip quivered as the corners of his mouth down turned and she could take it no longer. She closed the distance between them and slowly raised her arms to wrap around his neck in a warm embrace. At first he remained still, his body frozen in shock as her warm, small frame pressed against him, her arms cradling him tenderly with one hand on the back of his head, the other between his shoulder blades. He felt his troubles wash away, the tension holding him rigid melt and then he finally collapsed into her arms. He wrapped his arms tightly around her similar to the same fashion her arms held him, pulling her as close to him as was humanly possible. He buried his face into her hair, smelling the faint remnants of her shampoo, a light juniper scent, mixing with her normal lavender perfume, the messy blonde strands tickling his cheeks and jaw and the steady rise and fall of her chest against his. He'd been alone for so long, denied any human contact for practically his entire life that this simple gesture destroyed all resolve he'd been holding onto so dearly.

She soothingly ran her hand through the thick hair on the back of his head, urging him that whatever he was feeling was all right, whether it be doubt or joy or fear, she was here. He was holding on to her so tightly, as if he was terrified of letting her go, afraid she would leave, that she would give up, so she matched his clinging embrace and held him closer, locking her fingers in his hair, anchoring him to her. When she felt his head pull away she kept her grip, allowing him only enough leeway to peer into her eyes. The normal hard steely grey had changed, they were almost blue and swimming in their depths was every feeling he'd forever been afraid to show; fear, compassion, adoration and need all mingled together, giving sight to the damaged soul that lay far down below.

"Ellie I-" he whispered softly before she unwound her fingers from his hair and placed her index finger on his quivering lips to silence him.

There were no words she could say to tell him what she wanted him to know, and if there were she couldn't find them. Instead, she smiled at him before replacing her finger with her lips, pressing a soft, reassuring kiss on his bottom lip. She needed him to know that she didn't care about his shortcomings or faults, or whatever negative light he viewed himself in, to her, he was gold. Her hand rested gently on his sharp jaw line as her thumb gently caressed his prominent cheekbone, pouring her emotions out into her motions. After a moment his mouth responded, pulling her upper lip in between his own, his hand pushing her head closer to his. He pulled away for a brief second before sending his mouth again crashing down to hers, harder this time, filled with intent. His vigor caught her off guard, prompting her to subconsciously squeak out a soft whimper as their mouths met again and her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. That one little noise sent Sherlock over the edge. He felt a hunger awaken in him he never knew he possessed. His lips fought for dominance over hers as they began where they had left off the night before, but Everleigh's skill won out. She slid her tongue over his bottom lip, coaxing him to deepen their kiss, and he followed her guiding motions. Her tongue slipped into his open mouth, brushing his gently, before she pulled away for a brief second and opened her eyes to watch him. He understood immediately and brought her head back to his, reciprocating her prior actions, causing her to smile against his now perfectly puffy lips, swollen from contact with hers. Their waltz continued, lips brushing, tongues dancing, he'd never felt more alive in his entire life. A heat surged through him, one he'd never experienced before and he could not deny just how much he enjoyed it. He felt a tugging in his lower abdomen and then a sudden jolt to his pelvis, causing him to freeze as his eyes shot open. Was he, aroused?

Sherlock remembered back to a very awkward conversation he'd held with John a long time ago, when John was incessantly prying about Sherlock's sexual history, or complete lack of one. He'd explained what it felt like when you got, well, into a situation like this, but his description had not prepared Sherlock for the actual event. His lower half felt hot, and quite uncomfortable, like is pants were far too tight. He peered down and saw the product of these feelings and immediately he felt his cheeks glow bright red.

"Are you ok?" Ellie whispered, running the back of her hand down the side of his face.

"Fine," he answered, leaning in again to plant a soft, chaste kiss on her equally swollen lips.

When he pulled away she again wrapped her arms tightly around him, planting a kiss on his cheek, trying her best to avoid the very prominent bulge poking her in her lower abdomen. She would have been lying if she'd claimed she wasn't feeling exactly the same way he was, but that was no doubt an adventure for another time. There was an unfamiliar contentedness running through her as she stood in the arms of Sherlock Holmes, his piercing eyes changed only when he looked at her, they turned soft and tender. He held her lightly with one arm around her waist, mimicking her motions of stroking his cheek with her thumb on hers; he had so much to learn.

"I need to get to bed, work early again tomorrow," she cooed, moving her hand again to the hair on the back of his head.

"Oh. Of course. I'll, get a cab back to Baker Street," he replied sadly while unwrapping his arm from behind her.

"You're, um, I mean, you can stay, if you want to. My bed is, it's big and I've got an extra toothbrush and all that. Only, only if you want to. No, um, not to like, do anything, but maybe, maybe it would be nice to have someone else in bed with me. Not so lonely I suppose."

She mentally slapped herself for that one, could she have sounded anymore desperate? She expected him to turn and run out the door, but instead, one corner of his mouth turned up into a small smile. Honestly he was quite flattered at her offer and as much as he wanted to, he knew he was needed at Baker Street. John was no doubt still upset about the confession that Sherlock had stolen Ellie away from him, and staying overnight at her house would kill him.

"John is at home, alone. He's expecting me," Sherlock replied softly, his eyes and face so overcome with adoration he was hardly recognizable.

"Right, of course," she acknowledged, trying to hide her disappointment.

"I'll, call you tomorrow. That's what I'm supposed to do right?"

"If you want to, yeah. But not if you're just going to call it a mistake again."

"No. I shouldn't have done that. I didn't mean it."

"I know."

"Good night Ellie."

"Good night."

He gave her one last smile before leaning in where both planted a kiss on the cheek of the other, letting their cheeks linger together before he pulled away, both feeling the loneliness of separation settling in.

* * *

When Sherlock walked back in to his flat, John was still awake flipping through channels on the television, a tumbler of whiskey in his left hand.

"Ah you're back, you know it's rude to leave right after, you're supposed to at least stay the night," John teased, his speech slightly slurred.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock answered as he hung his coat and scarf up in the closet.

"Well, then how did it go? Did you confess your undying love for her?"

"I don't love her."

"Not yet"

"I don't believe in love, you know that."

You better treat her right Sherlock, or so help me God."

"He won't be of much help."

"You know what I mean."

"Good night John."

"I mean it!"

Sherlock smiled to himself as he walked down the hall to his bedroom and his empty bed, which he hoped wouldn't be lonely for too much longer.

* * *

A/N: I need opinions! Let me know what you thought! Please! I feel like this was a big risk to take and it's hard keeping with Season 2 Sherlock now that Season 3 Sherlock is so much different, so there probably will be a bit of a mix of the two. I's like to think Ev would draw some emotion out in him like we've seen in Season 3 so far :) Please review for me! And keep favoriting/following! Love you all!  


	17. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

"I don't ask you to love me always like this, but I ask you to remember. Somewhere inside of me there will always be the person I am tonight."

F. Scott Fitzgerald, 'Tender is the Night'

* * *

The final day of the year crept up on London in all its cold and windy glory and Everleigh found herself at 221B Baker Street. She'd decided to surprise the two inhabitants with afternoon tea, her true motivation to see Sherlock again getting more and more apparent the longer the three sat in a comfortable silence. John sat reading a magazine, Sherlock in the armchair across from him tuning his violin, sneaking wayward glances to the woman sitting on the couch against the back wall reading her well worn copy of John Keats' poetry she always kept handy. Their eyes met every so often, resulting in both turning their attention quickly away, with coy little smiles peeking out from behind their attempted masks of indifference. The truth was Sherlock was happy she was there; her presence calmed him and quieted his screaming mind. He didn't have a case and normally he would be running circles around the flat, clawing at the walls and annoying every living soul he came into contact with, but right now he was content. And so was she. Even though they sat across the room from one another they felt a closeness to each other that no distance could alter. The other had been a constant statue in their minds since Christmas, the thoughts and memories of what had happened were confusing but exciting.

A soft knock to the open door announced a new presence in the room and jolted all three of the occupants out of their inner quarrels and musings. John's newest, and to Sherlock, incredibly dull, companion had joined them. She always had an overeager smile plastered on her face and her voice was too high pitched, both obviously over-exaggerated for John's sake. She always attempted to overcompensate for her lack of personality and wit. Sherlock had yet to hear an intelligent thing come out of her mouth, adding one more thing to his list of pet peeves about Emma Halloway.

"Hello everyone!" Emma bubbled, scampering over to John and planting an exuberant kiss on his cheek, earning a scoff from Sherlock, who then received a warning eyebrow raise from Ellie.

"Hey," John responded, taken aback by her excitement.

"It's New Year's Eve tonight!"

"Yes, yes it is."

"A brilliant deduction! Tell me, how did you come to figure that out all on your own?" Sherlock asked, steepling his fingers in front of his lips.

"SHERLOCK!" both Ellie and John yelled out simultaneously, causing him to look at Ev sharply in confusion, the woman was intolerable, couldn't she see it?

"I uh, I looked at the calendar..." Emma responded, not catching the air of sarcasm in Sherlock's question.

"Don't mind him. So, what would you like to do this New Year's Eve?" John asked, turning Emma's attention back to him and away from his brooding flat mate.

"Go to the fair and fireworks of course! Oh, you two should come, it can be a double date!"

Everleigh and Sherlock both lifted their heads up to her, their eyes wide in embarrassment and tongues tied in apprehension. Inaudible sounds escaped from their mouths as they searched for the right answer to her invitation. A date?

"We're, not, dating," Ellie finally articulated after a good many uhs and ums, "Why on Earth would you think that?"

"I know women that would kill to have their husbands look at them like that," Emma stated, gesturing over to Sherlock.

Ev caught a glimpse of what Emma was referring to before Sherlock could look away, and it made her heart skip a beat. His mouth hung slightly parted, as if in awe of the sight before him, and his eyes matched in adoration, but there was a tenderness to his face that she'd never before seen with her own two eyes, as if his very life depended on the words she spoke. For not having any experience when it came to women Sherlock certainly did know how to bring her to her knees, but maybe that was why he excelled so well. He didn't know about standards or protocol, he just did exactly as his heart told him to do. There was a purity to his affections that made them all the more endearing and sincere.

"If you two aren't dating, then you should be," Emma added, emphasizing the last half of her sentence.

"Well they're not. Should we get going?" John urged, walking towards the front door hoping Emma would follow.

"Hang on. You really won't come along? It'll be fun!"

Sherlock and Ellie looked at one another, silently speaking. It didn't seem like a terrible idea, but Sherlock hated Emma, they hadn't been out together yet, was going with John a good idea though? The debating in their heads went on, neither wanting to agree if the other did not. Sherlock dreaded it, but Ellie would probably like to go, and she thought exactly the same as him. She'd never been to the New Year's Eve celebrations all the time she'd been in London and the thought of going with people she actually enjoyed the company of, Emma included, would be the best way to spend her evening, but Sherlock was nothing if not the epitome of antisocial.

"Fine," Sherlock finally agreed, drawing surprised little gasps from John and Ev, and a happy little grin from Emma.

"You're serious?" John asked, taking a step back towards his friend.

"Yes."

"My God."

"What?"

"Nothing I uh, can I talk to you in the kitchen for a moment?"

Sherlock rose and followed his friend into the kitchen, giving the women now chatting amicably in the sitting room one last glance, Everleigh's smile lighting up the room. When he turned his attention back to John, he noticed his friend had a small grin set upon his lips, a reaction he was not expecting, John's eyes full of humor.

"You have to be a date for her tonight, you know that?" John asked, using his hands to emphasize his statement.

"What?" Sherlock countered, his face turning up in confusion.

"A date, you know, romantic stuff. Women like that kind of thing."

"What?"

"Open doors for her, put your arm around her if she's cold. A date. Romance."

"Don't be ridiculous, if she's cold she should have brought a coat. It isn't my problem she didn't check the weather reports. They're right on her ph-"

"For God's sake Sherlock most of the time they aren't really cold, they just want your arm around them."

"What for?"

"You're hopeless."

Sherlock watched John walk back into the other room, confusion still coursing through his mind. He'd placed an arm around her before, when she was crying, and when he'd kissed her, but just standing idly and in  _public_ , what was the point in that? It just seemed useless and a little redundant. He looked back into the room at Ellie who was laughing, at something stupid Emma had said he was sure; maybe an arm around her wouldn't be so bad if she smiled like that when he did it.

* * *

The cab ride was miserable for Sherlock, listening to Emma babbling on and on and John feeding in to her nonsense. He'd sat in the front, using the rear view mirror to lock eyes with the only reason he sat in that car in the first place. Sparkling, fragile, endless brown; they spoke to him in ways no other persons could. Emotions were destructive; they destroyed everyone who made the mistake of letting them in, but what he was feeling in that moment did not seem malicious. When he looked at her he felt happy, and safe, and protected. His heart fluttered beneath his ribs in excitement whenever she walked into the room, her voice calmed the storm that raged in his mind and her touch set fire to his skin that spread through every nerve fiber, warming him to the very core. Certainly nothing that made him feel this impervious and light could be such a bad thing, but the world had been known to be that cruel. Dreams were empty promises, hope was false and for the weak, felt only by fools and love was nothing more than an illusion placed over people for continuation of the species. But as Sherlock looked at her, he didn't feel empty or weak, foolish or tricked, he felt alive and human and  _happy_. What was he expected to do with these feelings? Push them aside and file them away in a deep, dark corner of his palace? That wouldn't be doing them, or their cause, any justice.

The cab pulled to the curb, Sherlock peered out the window to the hoards of people mulling about and his happiness turned to dread. This was going to be a disaster. Emma got out the car first, pulling John by his arm like an exuberant little child, who rewarded her behavior with a smile, did he really find that endearing? Everleigh emerged last from the back seat, stopping to take in the world surrounding her.

The streets were bustling with happy people chatting amongst themselves merrily, enjoying the evening, the dry weather and the pending fresh start to all their slates. There were people from all over the globe there to take part in the world famous London New Year's celebrations and she marveled in the numerous different languages floating into her ears, she understood a little French but her fluency was less than sub par. She felt Sherlock come to stand beside her, his warmth radiating off of his body and she remembered that he was here with her. The thought made a smile erupt across her face, she didn't know what it was about Sherlock Holmes that made her feel this way, he just did, and she liked it. She turned her attention up to his face and saw a happy little lopsided smile adorning his sharp features, softening him slightly, his curls falling messily onto his brow. His eyes gazed at her softly, but they were wary. He was uncomfortable out in settings like this, she knew that, and she appreciated him even more for coming. This was the final affirmation. To her, everything she'd been throwing around in her mind about what he felt came together in this moment. As she stared into his grey eyes, she saw the heart that lie underneath, and his capability to care, and maybe even love.

"Are you two just gonna stare at each other all night or can we go?" John asked sharply from a few yards in front of them, an eager Emma bouncing on his arm.

"Coming," Sherlock responded, not turning his eyes away from the woman by his side.

The four began walking down the streets, taking in the vendors and different games lining the sidewalks, their owners beckoning people to step up and try their hand, or discover the rare gifts their tents beheld. To John and Emma, this was just a normal date, surrounded by normal people, but for Sherlock, to every person his eyes fell on, his mind went to work. He couldn't stop it, the analysis', the facts hitting his brain one after another, it was exhausting, each deduction like a slap to the face. Liar, cat owner, schoolteacher, having an affair with a younger man, recent hernia surgery, gambling addiction, he couldn't stop them no matter what he tried. Without a case to keep his mind focused, his thoughts ran rampant, searching for anything to occupy itself with. He averted his eyes to the sidewalk, finding the discoveries of just how long that chewing gum had been stuck there much easier to cope with, but Everleigh couldn't help but notice his discomfort. She sped in front of him and turned, place her hands gently on is chest to stop him, her touch easing his tension.

"Are you ok? You look awful," she whispered, turning her head to check the whereabouts of their companions.

"Make it stop," he pleaded under his breath, more to himself than to her.

"Make what stop?"

He turned his eyes up to her and kept his gaze fixated on her. Her eyes held concern, her face was lined with worry, her hair blew softly around her cheeks, she looked lovely. He concentrated on her, and only her, ignoring the world whizzing by right behind her, he let it all melt away and everything went quiet. He concentrated each of his senses on her, seeing her face, smelling the lavender lightly wafting from her neck, remembering the taste of her lips on his, hearing her breathing and feeling her warm, comforting hands on his chest, her fingers subtly rubbing up and down soothingly. She occupied every facet of his being in that moment and at last he felt relief. He looked over her shoulder, testing his newfound serenity and saw John searching the crowds for them, his neck craning as he stood on the tips of his toes. Sherlock raised his hand and gave a small wave, much to the relief of John who grabbed his date's hand and ran over to them.

"Hey, everything all right?" John asked as he came to stand right behind Ellie.

"Fine," Sherlock answered, looking to John then fondly back to the woman in front of him.

"The fireworks are gonna start soon, we should go find somewhere to watch."

"Away from people preferably."

"Uh, yeah. We'll try our best."

The four took off into the hoards of people once again, John and Emma hand in hand leading Sherlock and Ellie to a patch of grass where people had started collecting in preparation for the festivities. Sherlock studied the two in front of them; their fingers entwined, shoulders bumping up against the others, her other hand resting gingerly on his forearm. It appeared simple enough. His eyes slid down to Ellie's hand swaying gently at her side, her petite, slender fingers hanging empty in the cold, winter air, then down to his own. Courage mixed with yearning surged through him as he cautiously moved his hand closer to hers. This was right, wasn't it? He'd never tried this before, he'd never wanted to, until now. His middle finger brushed against her hand, her skin sending shockwaves through his arms into his chest. He circled his finger around hers slowly, his heart hammering in his chest as he waited for any sort of reaction from her, whether it was to be rejection or acceptance. He kept his eyes intently on her and he saw her eyes pulling at the corners of her mouth as her finger curled around his, welcoming it into her warm embrace. Sherlock felt a smile break his cold exterior in half, slowly these seemingly pointless behaviors all started to make sense. There was an inexplicable joy he felt building up inside of him as her remaining fingers wound their way between his, his heart was beating rapidly and his insides fluttered to life as their hands meshed perfectly, her warmth radiating through him.

"Here okay?" John asked turning around, causing Sherlock to rip his hand away from the refuge it had just recently discovered.

"Yes. Fine," Sherlock snapped in response, hoping John hadn't seen his show of affection.

"We're going to go get some drinks, do you want anything?"

"No thank you."

Ellie shook her head at John's offer and watched the pair walk over to a cart not far from where her and Sherlock stood. She felt her cheeks grow hot as she watched John and Emma walk further and further away, leaving her alone with Sherlock. He'd just tried to hold her hand, and the euphoria was still buzzing about in her body. She felt like a schoolgirl again, giddy and bashful, as his eyes fell softly back to her. The butterflies took flight inside of her stomach, she felt like she was floating, all the sadness, the guilt, the fear, had washed away and in its place was happiness and a newfound affection for the man beside her. Through the past years she'd thought she had forgotten what this felt like, the excitement of a new romance, the nerves and emotions, the fear of giving yourself wholly over to the other person, but building the trust that made it all the more easier.

"Should we, sit down?" Sherlock asked, breaking the silence and gesturing to the grass at their feet.

She knelt first, easing her way back onto the ground as Sherlock followed suit. He sat inches away from her, the wind whipping his hair around his face. He looked like something straight out of Greek mythology, angular, stoic, and cold. It baffled her the ways his face could change so drastically with such minute adjustments, one moment he looked hardened and the next, tender and warm with only a simple flicker of his eyes and twitch of his lips. Lips she had come to be so very fond of with their slow, burning movements and tender touches.

"It's a bit cold out here," she confessed, wishing she'd dressed a little warmer.

"You should have worn a scarf," Sherlock retorted, turning his own collar up against the cold, "Oh."

John's words rang through his head, 'she just wants your arm around her'. Right. He turned his head, investigating the crowds around him. Everyone seemed to be pulled into their own little worlds, completely oblivious to the world around them. His eyes scanned for any potential threats, but none were found. He truly was in this moment alone with her, a small sliver of time carved out of the universe.

"Uh, here. You can, come closer, if that would help. With the cold," he offered nervously, pulling his arm away from his body slightly.

Was that right? She peered over at him with a disoriented stare, no, it mustn't have been right. She appeared as if his words had stunned him, was it awkward now? He felt awkward; he felt his eyes darting from left to right and his arm growing limp as it fell back to his side.

"Was that, wrong?" he asked quietly, "John told me-"

"No. Not wrong, sorry," she cut in, "It, yeah, it will help the cold."

Slowly she closed the tiny gap between them and situated herself into his side. He was warm and solid, a safe house. His arm went around her loosely as her body again fit perfectly into his. This was her haven, her stronghold, here, with him. Nothing could harm her and for once in her life it didn't seem like anything that had happened before mattered. She could smell his familiar scent now mingling with the faint trace of tobacco and her senses dulled, giving in to the hypnotic state his presence brought about. His wool coat was rough on her cheek as she laid her head on his shoulder, his jaw coming to rest on the side of her head ever so gently. Her hair was soft on his skin and he closed his eyes, taking in the new sensations tumbling their way into his brain. Never would he have believed he would be sitting here, holding a woman in his arms and enjoying it.

A whistle broke through the chattering around them; a thunderous boom introduced eruptions of colors in the sky. People around them cheered as 12:00 AM of the 1st of January 2011 began, ushering in the year that would change them all, for better and for worse. Sherlock peered down at the woman nestled into his ribs; red, green, gold and blue danced across her features, the colors painting her ivory skin like a canvas, each hue adding to her already flawless design. As he looked at her, he never could have predicted the events to come, even a mind like his couldn't fathom the trials that lay ahead, the good and the bad.

John and Emma wound there way through the crowds, finding their friends huddled up on the ground, Ev's eyes focused on the sparks flying in the sky, but Sherlock's were fixed on her, like she was the only thing in the universe. He should have been happy, he tried, but the pang of jealousy hit him hard in the gut, crippling all other emotional abilities. He realized though this envy was not entirely at the fact it was Everleigh Sherlock was with, it was just the way he  _looked_  at her. For his whole life John had been searching for that person, that one person that made the world spin, and he had yet to even come close. But Sherlock, Sherlock swears off relationships since, forever, and his first stab at it he finds his soul mate, or whatever he wanted to call it. Why was he so lucky?

"John? Should we, you know, go over there?" Emma quipped from beside him linking her arm with his.

"No. You know what, let's just go back to the flat. They seem to be having a bit of a moment," John replied, his sarcastic tone well masked, but still apparent.

John pulled his phone from his pocket, sending a brief text message to his flat mate that he was leaving early before turning towards the line of cabs waiting by the curb, Sherlock and Ellie taking the same course of action an hour later.

They stood outside of 221B, both with their hands secured in their coat pockets, the smoke from their breath rising and joining together above their heads. Sherlock didn't know how to say goodbye, he didn't want to.

"Happy New Year," she breathed with a perfect smile.

"Happy New Year," he replied quietly before leaning down and pressing his lips to her cheek.

She leaned her head into his, his hair tickling her temple contrasting with his stubble scratching at her cheek. This felt so effortless, so why was it all so hard? Because it mattered, she thought. Every action had a reaction, good or bad, and one bad outcome could send this fragile foundation shattering to the floor. One terrible revelation, or discovery, could destroy it, and at no cost could she allow that to happen.

She watched as he walked through his front door, his coat swaying around his legs, and not moments later as if on cue, her phone went off. Angrily, she ripped it from her pocket and stalked off towards her car.

"Stop calling me. I don't know where he is. Leave me alone," she seethed, speaking venomously through her teeth.

"You're lying. You always were so good at that," the altered voice spoke through the other line.

"I'm not. I have not a clue."

"Maybe Sherlock Holmes does."

"Leave him out of this. He has nothing to do with it."

"He does now. If he sniffs too close, we won't hesitate to put him down. We will pick you apart and tear you down until you tell us where he is. Don't assume that we won't."

Before she could respond her phone beeped into her ear, signaling the call had been ended, causing her to throw her phone down onto the seat beside her. There was a decision coming very soon, one she wasn't sure she would be able to make.

* * *

_A/N: Good news, I mapped out all of the post-Reichenbach fun/Season 3, it's gonna be a fun ride... Thanks to my dear friend Nazia for sitting up until 2 AM helping me plan, plot and sort it all out and form an amazing little story._

_My personal tumblr is clueing-with-benedict, ask my plot questions, tell me things you want to see or don't want to see, I love it all! And, I've decided any questions asked on the everleigh-rose tumblr will be answered in her POV. Try and think of some! It will really help to try and get into her mind in ways I wouldn't have even thought to look._


	18. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

"Wouldn't we be quite the pair?-you with your bad heart, me with my bad head. Together though, we might have something worthwhile."  
-Zelda Fitzgerald to F. Scott Fitzgerald

* * *

"Hey thanks for meeting me," John greeted as he joined Everleigh in the coffee shop she found herself frequenting with both him and Sherlock in the recent weeks.  
"Yeah of course," she replied as they both sat down in a table in the back corner, the waitress bustling over with a kettle and mugs.  
It was two days into 2011 and for once, the sun was shining, basking the city outside in its warm, welcoming glow. John had called Ev earlier, asking to meet her somewhere to talk, about what she had no idea. She hadn't seen or heard from either of the residents of 221B Baker Street since she'd watched Sherlock walk back into the flat in the early hours of New Year's Day and she'd missed them. John looked as cheerful as ever, his light hair shining in the sunlight filtering in through the windows, a crooked smile adorning his face.  
"So, next week, is Sherlock's birthday and I know for a fact he would love for you to be there, whether he would admit it or not. Now, it's a surprise, so don't tell him. It's Thursday and we're just getting some people together at the flat around seven. Can you make it?" he asked her, his dark blue eyes glinting.  
"I think so. I'll have to push my work schedule around but I should be able to make it. Is surprising Sherlock, even possible?" she replied with a laugh.  
"We'll see. I doubt it though. So, I uh, I saw you, on New Year's. You and Sherlock."  
"Oh."  
"I think he'd probably like to see you again."  
Her heart jumped into her throat as a mischievous grin came across John's lips. She thought she'd probably like to see him again too. She hadn't forgotten the way she'd felt curled up into his ribs, how safe, and happy. The sleepless nights plagued on, the encompassing darkness only making her crave his warm, guarding embrace even more. In the early hours of the morning as she lie awake, tossing and turning, her body aching and her mind exhausted, her thoughts found solace in the memories of him. Although few in number, they were powerful, and peaceful, working as a distraction to the horrifying images that were more commonly played out behind her fluttering eyelids. Her curiosity peaked at what it would feel like to be held ever so gently in his long, slender arms, his body pressed against hers, the soft sound of his sleeping breaths lulling her to sleep. But that was nothing but a fantasy.  
"I, would like to see him, again," she finally answered, taking a small sip of her tea.  
"Good. He's at the flat right now not doing much of anything. If you'd like to come by," John invited, slapping a few notes down on the table and rising from his chair.  
"Right now?"  
"Yeah. Good a time as any. I mean you don't have to, but, if you want. He's there, bored..."  
"Sure. Why not?"

* * *

The butterflies were dancing wildly in Ev's stomach as her and John ascended the stairs into 221B, the creaking of the wooden floorboards no doubt giving away the presence of a second guest to Sherlock's trained ears. He heard the muffled voices echoing in the halls, noticing at once that one person was John, and the other was not Mrs. Hudson. He rolled his eyes and returned his attention back to the microscope on the table in front of him; he'd brought that awful girl back here again. Honestly, John could not keep expecting him to "behave", as John so eloquently put it, she got more and more intolerable every time she stepped foot into this flat.  
"Sherlock," John greeted as he threw his keys down onto a side table, "I brought someone along to see you."  
"How lovely, what news from the steadily diminishing IQ club today- Oh," Sherlock snapped his mouth shut as he saw who accompanied John.  
His memory never did her justice. Every time he saw her it was like seeing her for the first time again. Her eyes had fallen to him gently, her hands locked together nervously in front of her. Why was she nervous? He felt a sudden urge to go over and pull her to him, assure her she had nothing to fear. But then another thought passed through to the front of the queue. Where had she been with John? His soft expression turned to questioning as he looked back and forth between the two of them. He had nothing to worry about, right? John had Emma, not that that fact was very reassuring, and Ellie, well, John had already had his chance.  
"What are you working on?" she asked softly as she removed her scarf and coat, coming to stand a seemingly cautious distance away from him.  
"Eyes," he answered quickly, no longer caring about his research instead wondering, why was she so far away?  
"Oh. Lovely."  
John stood still in the sitting room, watching in awe of how Sherlock's features instantly changed when his eyes fell to their guest. They softened, his eyes wide in childlike wonder, his shoulders slumped slightly, and he was totally at ease. A piece of him regretted bringing her here, his own selfish desires fighting for dominance over the joy he knew he needed to feel for his friend, no, his  _friends_. They both became entirely different people in the presence of the other, what they appeared to have was exactly what every person on the planet searched for, including him. He hadn't found it yet. That thought snapped his next task back into his head. His next extremely unpleasant task.  
"Well, I'm off, you two uh, have fun I guess," John bade the pair goodbye, neither one turning to look at him, "All right, see you later."  
John waited for a response, but after a few awkward seconds he realized he wasn't going to receive one. With an acknowledging nod of his head, he grabbed his keys and trotted down the stairs two and a time, leaving Sherlock and Ellie alone in the flat for the first time.  
Sherlock attempted to turn his eyes back to his microscope but his gaze kept falling back to the woman beside him. She stood leaning against the table, her hands still joined nervously in front of her. She stayed silent as she watched him with gentle, adoring eyes, not rushing him or pestering him, just observing.  
"You, don't have to stay," Sherlock told her as his eyes met hers.  
"I want to," she assured him softly, "As long as you don't mind."  
"I don't mind."  
Her face lit up like the moon, he watched her shoulders relax and her eyes fall back to their almond shape, the fear draining away. Her pink lips had pulled up into a small smile and Sherlock couldn't help but mirror her expression with a crooked smile of his own. From the corner of his eye he saw her hand raising slowly upwards which came to stop on the back of his head tenderly, her fingers moving slowly through his curls. Her touch was so calming, his body was humming with a mix of fascination and fondness, his brain tumultuous with a variety of thoughts.  
"Can I ask you something?" she questioned, her fingers still twirling through his hair.  
"Yes," he breathed, trying his hardest to focus.  
"What makes you happy?"  
His face fell. What made him, happy? Happiness wasn't real; he'd had that pummeled into his brain since he was seven years old. But was it? What other word could capture how he felt in this moment, here, her hand combing through his hair softly?  
"Happiness is nothing more than a trick of the mind. An illusion," he responded, hardening his voice and face, the words he wanted to say crashing against his closed teeth.  
"No it isn't," she told him sympathetically, "It's a choice. You accept the happiness you think you deserve. What makes you happy Sherlock Holmes?"  
"Murder."  
'You' is the word that came stampeding to the front of his brain, bouncing off of every wall and ceiling in his mind, but he didn't deserve her. He deserved the joy he felt from serial killers and murders, bad events bringing joy to an unpleasant, rude asshole. But her, she was kind, warm, and genuine, he was the very last thing on the planet he deserved. He was never kind to anyone; he wasn't even kind to her.  
"Murder? Hopefully not participating in them," she replied with a laugh, pulling her hand away from him and walking into the sitting room.  
He watched her meander around his flat, looking at the different objects and knickknacks scattered around on shelves and tables. Her fingers ran gingerly across the surfaces, leaving little trails in the dust that layered everything in the room, maybe he should have allowed Mrs. Hudson to dust in there. She came to stop at a collection of music, her eyes scanning the titles.  
"Claire de Lune. When I first started playing the piano that was the one song I wanted to learn," she mused as she pulled the CD away from the others, "I'll never forget the first time I played it through. I made so many mistakes, but I was so happy. To this day it's still my favorite."  
She turned the case over in her hands, smiling sadly down at it. Memories from her childhood came flooding back, sitting with her grandmother at the piano for hours, her fingers stinging from practicing, her head throbbing, but the pride emitting from her gran beside her made it all worth it. The feeling of the notes flowing through her the first time she'd completed the piece had been one of the most gratifying things she'd ever done. Her reminiscing was interrupted as she felt a pair of hands overlap her own before gently pulling the case from her hands. Without breaking eye contact with her he opened it and removed the disc. She stared back at him; her eyes were intent and hopeful. She was hoping for him, and that baffled him. All he could was try and make her happy, like she made him feel with nothing more than her breathing. He turned his attention to the radio and placed the disc in the player, pushing play with a long, slender finger.  
The music began floating around the small room, serene and soft. She looked so delicate, fragile, like she was going to shatter at any moment. Cautiously, he reached out and took one of her hands in his; it was so much smaller than his, warm and soft. Slowly he pulled her towards him, placing his other hand on her hip. Dancing. It was one thing he knew how to do, and actually enjoyed it. Her hand rose up to his shoulder and came to rest, her fingers gripping the muscle of his upper arm almost desperately. He started moving his feet, each step quicker than the last, stopping when he learned where her skills topped out. Their pace was slow and their eyes bore into each other's, investigating, searching for answers.  
Her voice broke the silence. She told him she wasn't herself, and she hadn't been for a long while. He didn't know what she meant, but he didn't care what had happened, or why, not right now anyways. He wanted to weave inside her chest and kiss everything she thought he would hate; all of her fears, insecurities and failures. He didn't hate them. He could never hate any piece of her; each one had a place in her puzzle; each one necessary to paint the beautiful picture before him. He liked her for exactly what she was. But his nerves and his lack of romantic experience stopped him dead in his tracks. Nervous? This was certainly new and as much as he wanted to say he hated the feeling it wouldn't have been the truth. In fact, he enjoyed it. It was new, rejuvenating; it brought him back from the dull monotonous patterns he had adopted so long ago.  
Her hand dug into his shoulder, clinging to him as he watched despair contort her face. Instinctively, he moved his hand tighter around her middle, pulling her closer to him, the warmth radiating from her waist shooting up his arm. Her head came to rest on his chest; it fit perfectly in the dip of his shoulder, her hair tickling his jaw. Just like a few days before, he leaned his cheek down atop her head, remembering how much he'd enjoyed it before. Why did this feel so natural? He loathed human contact, dismissed fickle emotion and his heart was made of stone, but with her, everything was different.  
They swayed to and fro silently, her small frame cradled by his long, slender refuge, the silence between them settling and untroubled by their personal turmoil and problems. Their senses flooded by the other, nothing else mattered. Not his shattering resolve or her debilitating self loathing, he didn't question anything in that moment, just took in the feeling of her hands, her warm breath on his chest and the happiness, yes, the happiness that he felt could explode from his chest.  
The song stopped and her head lifted from his shoulder, the despair replaced with tranquility. He looked closely into her eyes, and he saw it. That twinkle of mystery, her untold secret, but he wasn't able to focus on it, his senses had been clouded with affection and reverence for her that he didn't care what she wasn't telling him, he just wanted her to stay. They separated, but he kept a hold of her hand, which he used to lead her back into the kitchen, stopping when she was in front of his microscope.  
"What do you see?" he asked her, gesturing to the instrument on the table.  
She smirked over at him before lowering her eyes, "Laser eye surgery," she stated, keeping her eyes on the specimen.  
"What?"  
"Whoever this was, they had laser eye surgery, minor, just a little residual scarring."  
A large smile broke out on his face as she raised her eyes back to him, a triumphant little grin decorating her porcelain face. He jotted her observation down before reaching around her back and replacing the slide on the tray with a new one. He retracted his arm, dragging his palm across her back slowly. Her breath hitched in her throat as traitorous goose bumps erupted on her skin, which didn't go unnoticed by their cause. He was learning what actions of his caused which reaction from her, and seemingly, she enjoyed every touch.  
"You," he whispered as his hand lingered on the small of her back.  
"What?" she asked, confused.  
"The answer to your question."  
She thought back, what question? She couldn't remember any question, her nerves were buzzing and her head was floating, this all seemed like a dream, cloudy and hard to concentrate on. Question?  
A pair of footsteps thudded against the wood of the stairs, announcing the other inhabitant of flat's return. Sherlock pulled his hand away sharply, taking three large steps away from Ev just in time to be greeted by John's troubled face.  
"Hey, what uh, what're you two up to?" John asked, his voice flat and low.  
"Science," Sherlock blurted out, his lips pursed and eyes wide.  
"Science? Right."  
"I was just leaving," Ellie announced, clapping her hands nervously.  
"What, why?" both John and Sherlock asked simultaneously, causing them to turn and look at each other bewildered.  
"I told, Sam, someone I work with, I'd help him, run lines," she lied.  
"Oh," they responded in sync again.  
"Thank you, Sherlock, for, the science... experiment and John I will see you, later."  
She looked first at John, then behind her to Sherlock, who she gave a longing stare to before quickly grabbing her things and walking back out into the shining sun, her heart light and her head spinning.  
"So, science huh? Is that what they're calling it nowadays?" John asked, smirking.  
"What?" Sherlock responded, furrowing his brow in confusion.  
"I was gone an hour, and all you did was look at eyeballs with her?"  
"What was I supposed to do?"  
"Oh I don't know. She likes you, Sherlock, you recognize that right?"  
"Yes."  
"Right. Good."  
Sherlock stared at his friend, wishing he could talk to him about everything that was going on. John could make sense of it all. There was no one Sherlock trusted more with his heart's wellbeing than John Watson, and perhaps if his heart weren't so invested, he would have found it easier to talk about. But it wasn't only his heart at risk in this, so were Ellie's and John's and one of theirs was going to break no matter what he decided.

* * *

_A/N: I'm afraid that until the end of March updates will be few in number. I have my national certification test for my job in March and I need to study for that. Boo. But, after March 17th I'll be free to do this with all my free time again!_   
_On the question of a story for John, I can't start a new one for him, I can barely handle this one! Haha, however, if you guys want a small little side storyline in this one let me know and if enough people want me to add it in I will. We are going explore the time between Reichenbach and Hearse, so John and Mary getting together will be involved much later._   
_The next one features everyone's favorites! Mycroft makes a triumphant return, Greg and Molly. It should be good!_   
__


	19. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

"I loved her not for the way she danced with my angels but for the way the sound of her name could silence my demons."

-Christopher Poindexter

* * *

 

She was nervous. Her hands were shaking as she brought the sharp felt tip to her eyelid, resulting in the third failed attempt at a straight, flowing accent to her wide, brown eyes. She groaned in frustration, grabbing for another cotton ball and her bottle of make up remover. As she threw the wad into the growing pile on the bathroom counter, her mind wandered to the only thing she'd been able to focus on; **When will I see you again? -SH**. Every time the words ran over in her head her heart jumped into her throat as she remembered his hand on her waist and the graceful steps of his feet as he led her around the creaking wooden floor of his flat. She'd wanted to respond now, whenever you'd like, as much as you want, but her fingers only spelled the word **Soon.** It hadn't been a lie, that was only three days ago, whether he knew about his surprise party today had yet to be determined, but probably, her attendance, however, she hoped was still unbeknownst to his infallible mind.

The clock struck seven, signaling she was now late, dressed in a bath robe, with only one eye done up, and her hair still matted and tangled on her head. This was not how she envisioned the evening beginning. Was a dress too much? How casual was too casual? Clothes showered across the room as she threw them out of the running; too pink, too shiny, plaid, no. Since when had choosing clothes to wear been so _difficult_? It wasn't like her life depended on this. They were clothes, it was simple, makeup, she did it everyday, why did it seem like this mattered so much more? She closed her eyes in frustration, piercing grey flashed behind hers, scrutinizing her softly, searching gently; she missed that gaze.

Slowly, she finished prepping herself for the night, finally getting her make up right, drying her hair and dressing in a simple combo of jeans and a sweater. Her fingers shook in anticipation as she turned her keys in the ignition, the engine roaring to life causing her to jump. She was on edge, nervous and excited as she drove closer and closer to the flat where he lived, remembering vividly the softness of his eyes as he'd looked down upon her and the solid, toned muscle that lie beneath his tight dress shirts, the buttons groaning as they barely held together across his chest. A jolt hit her in the lower abdomen, sending a shockwave of desire coursing through her; definitely not the way she wanted to start this evening off.

Mrs. Hudson answered the door this time, her cheerful smile and welcoming embrace eased Everleigh's trembling hands slightly, "So good of you to come, dear. Sherlock will be happy to see you!"

"Sorry I'm late," Ev apologized as her heart began hammering in her chest.

"Oh don't worry about it, just so long as you're here."

"I hope no one's been waiting just for me."

"He's been waiting a long time for someone like you."

"What? Someone like me?"

"Someone who sees past his façade, because that's really all it is, underneath he needs love just as much as the rest of us. He's lonely."

"We're just friends."

"Oh don't be bashful!"

"We are."

"You know, I think we like to complicate things, read too far into, try to see the future, when it's all really quite simple; find what makes you happy and hold onto it. That's all it is really."

Ev stared at the woman in front of her wide eyed and bewildered. Happiness, which had been a topic at the very front of Everleigh’s, and Sherlock's, mind as of late. She remembered what she'd said to Sherlock three days ago, words her grandmother had engrained into her memory since before she could remember, and she'd asked herself the very same question; what made her happy? Music, wine, the creaking of a piano as the keys were uncovered, her grandparents, Sherlock Holmes' soft, fleeting touches-

"Well come on, everyone's upstairs," Mrs. Hudson interrupted, extending her arm towards the staircase excitedly.

As the two women ascended the stairs, the wood squeaking beneath their feet, Sherlock sat in his leather chair, hands steepled at his lips, thinking of nothing else but just how miserable this evening was. He'd known John had been planning it for weeks, he could have easily gotten out of it, but he couldn't deny that a small piece of him wanted to be here, just to see exactly who attended. So far he'd been disappointed. Only the usual suspects had arrived, Lestrade, Molly, John and Mrs. Hudson; John had been smart enough not to invite any one else. There was still one person missing, someone he desperately wished were there. Maybe she just didn't want to come, or maybe, John hadn't invited her. The babbling from around him disrupted his recollections of her, Molly laughing at a ridiculous impersonation Lestrade was doing, John dropping glasses into the sink, the loud clangs echoing off the walls of the mind palace. Why couldn't they all just shut up?

His attention turned to the open doorway, revealing Mrs. Hudson returning from the first floor with a large, toothy grin. What was she so happy about? Seconds later, the answer to that question stepped out from behind his landlady and into the room, a wave of relief rushed from his chest out into his fingertips and down into his toes. Finally. He'd endured what felt like countless hours of this torturous, unnecessary gathering, but now, it could go all night for all he cared. Their eyes met from across the room, a small, flirtatious smile curling her lips and Sherlock felt himself begin to unravel. She had the ability to completely undo him with a single momentary glance, and her touch, he felt, would one day send him to his grave. In that moment he realized just how much he'd missed her.

"The eyes tell what the heart feels," Mrs. Hudson whispered from beside Ev before patting her on the shoulder and walking into the kitchen.

His eyes were soft and filled with gratitude, as if he'd been waiting for her. The rest of his face was still hardened behind the layers of stone that had built up over the years, but his eyes were the windows into the man beneath the wall. She wondered just how long it would take to chisel it all away, chip by chip, crack by crack, and what lie inside that cold, unemotional fortress. What burdens, betrayals and hardships were locked away behind his icy grey eyes? She would spend a lifetime getting down to his deepest levels if that's what it took, but would she allow him to follow in her footsteps and delve deep into _her_ psyche? He wouldn't like what he found, that she knew for certain, and she would lose him, except one couldn't lose what they did not have. It was all irrelevant now anyway, he didn't need to know, not now not ever.

Her feet began to carry her across the room and closer to the man whose ghost kept her company in the dark hours of the night. His hands fell away from his face and he leaned forward slightly, ready to greet her, just waiting for her to be close enough. His vigor, although slight, reawakened the longing she'd felt standing outside his door, her body buzzing at the thought of his touch. He stood quickly, buttoning his jacket before his fingers began nervously tapping his thighs.

"Hello," she greeted softly as she came to stand just inches away from him, her eyes peering up at him adoringly.

"Hello," he replied, pursing his lips.

"Happy birthday!"

"Thank you."

With a soft giggle she extended herself up onto the tips of her toes and planted a gentle, lingering kiss to his right cheek. His eyes snapped shut as his senses went into overdrive, he wanted so desperately to memorize every sensation she brought to him, knowing that is was only her that caused them. He needed assurance they were real for when he lied in his bed alone in the early hours of the morning, because whenever she wasn't there, they seemed like nothing more than a fabrication of his hyperactive thoughts. But this was real, she was real, his fluttering heart was real. As her breath tickled his ear as she exhaled slowly he stifled the growing urge to wrap his arms tightly around her and never let go, to turn and press his lips into her soft hair, then to her forehead, down to her nose and finally, back to her velvet lips. These feelings were new, these thoughts were foreign but it seemed right, every thought of his brain telling him it was exactly what he needed.

"How are you?" he choked out as she pulled away, hoping she would hear what he truly wished to say 'I've missed you more than I've ever missed anything before'.

"I'm okay. How are you?" she answered, rubbing her hands gently down his upper arms.

"Fine."

"Just fine? It's your birthday!"

"I seem to be the only one here who doesn't care about the date."

"Oh Sherlock, whatever will we do with you?"

'Them I don't care, but you, you can do whatever you like', he thought as he watched the shades of gold in her hair dance in the light.

"So, what does Sherlock Holmes want for his birthday? A murder spree throughout London? Or a chained of armed robberies maybe?"

"Those are my Christmas wishes."

"Ah, of course. Something a little more simple for your birthday then?"

A crooked smile broke out onto his face, he couldn't help it; over and over he fell for her no matter how hard he tried not to. His birthday wish was this and for the first time in his life he had got exactly what he wanted.

"Hello!" a merry female voice interrupted from behind Ev.

"Oh, hello. Um, Molly right?" Ev greeted, seeing the green of envy dancing in the young woman's bright eyes.

"Yep. Here to celebrate Sherlock's birthday with everyone?"

"I am. Just wanted to give the birthday boy my well wishes first."

Sherlock rolled his eyes; he would've been more annoyed if she hadn't looked so charming as the words fell sweetly off her lips like honey. As Molly dragged Ellie away from him and over to where she had been standing with Lestrade she looked back at him, her eyes mischievous and a warmth flowed from his abdomen down into his pelvis, causing him to remember the awful embarrassment he'd suffered at her will back on Christmas Day. His eyes fell discreetly downward, hoping his current flushed state wasn't visible to everyone else. He needed a break.

"So, how was Christmas?" Molly asked Ev, her mouth formed into a tight line.

"I worked. Yours?" Ev answered, her eyes following Sherlock as he entered his bedroom.

"Good, spent it with family."

"Ah. That must have been lovely."

"It was! Did you see Sherlock? On Christmas?"

"Uh, briefly, yeah."

"Oh. How nice. Did he visit you at work?"

"No. We went out for coffee."

"Out. For, coffee?"

"Yeah."

What was this girl's problem? Why did she care if Ev had seen Sherlock on Christmas? They'd done more than just go out for coffee, but Ev got the feeling the revelation of what had else had happened would crush this poor girl's spirits. The small talk was getting quite tiresome, her concern for Sherlock and his sudden removal from the group outweighed her desire to get to know the prying woman that had stolen her away from him.

"I've known Sherlock for a long time," Molly blurted out, craning her neck so her face was now blocking Ev's view of the hall, "We've worked together for years."

"That's great. I'm sure you've helped him a lot," Ev retorted, her, ability to hide the annoyance in her voice waning.

"I have! It's fun! Have you ever helped him solve anything?"

"I can't say that I have."

"Oh. Well, maybe he'll ask you one day, he may need a physician's opinion on something, if he already doesn't know everything-"

"Excuse me."

Everleigh's attention, what little she had been giving, was torn away from Molly and directed to the door. Her heart dropped into her stomach as she watched one of the last people she had ever expected to see again stroll in, umbrella in hand, his air of arrogance still swirling about his receding hairline and hook-like nose. What surprised her even more was how John walked up to him and greeted him like an old friend; how did John know him? The man cracked a sly smile as John whipped his head left to right, no doubt searching the room for a man who'd been missing for quite some time now, Sherlock. That man had asked Ev to _spy_ on Sherlock for him, why would he need that if he were able to just stroll into his flat like an old friend? Things weren't adding up.

Ducking behind furniture, her feet guiding her quickly and silently, she wound her way back to Sherlock's bedroom door unnoticed, she needed answers. She knocked lightly three times, breathing his name loudly afterwards.

Sherlock's head shot up, she was at his bedroom door? Oh this wasn't the time, he didn't trust himself so secretly tucked away with her, not again.

"Sherlock, I need to talk to you, please open the door," she whispered loudly, her voice growing frantic, something was wrong.

He rushed to the door, ripping it almost clear off the hinges as he opened it, checking her up and down as her figure came into his view.

"What's the matter?" he asked, scanning the flat behind her for any other signs of distress.

"I need to come in," she rushed, looking behind her then back to him.

He moved aside, giving her enough to room to scurry into his room before closing the door behind him. She looked flustered, distressed, but he couldn't help where his mind wandered to next. He'd wondered countless times what it would be like to have her here, in his bedroom, alone, with no concern for what lie on the other side of that door. Now with her here, it was easy for his imagination to run wild, introducing new scenarios for him to mull over in the middle of the night, alone.

"There's a man out there," she started, crossing her arms angrily over her chest.

"There are two men out there," Sherlock told her, sitting in the armchair against the back wall.

"Well now there are three."

"What?"

Sherlock jumped up, no, he wouldn't have, he wouldn't dare. He ran to the door again and cracked it slightly, poking the front if his face out to look and listen. As he investigated the newest, and unwelcome, guest, he felt a pair of small hands gingerly rub across his back, one continuing over to his upper arm, before a little blonde head popped out from behind his shoulder. He turned his head back, startled by her sudden contact, bringing their noses touching tip to tip and for a moment, he didn't care about his brother showing up unannounced to his flat, or that he'd just heard one of his test tubes go crashing to the ground, shattering into a million tiny pieces. His self control felt like that little glass tube as he turned to face her, grabbing her jaw gently in between his hands, relishing in her shocked little intake of breath. Everything she did was driving him mad, the way her eyes looked up into his, so full of hope and how her hands came to rest on his hips, fingertips digging into the bone and skin desperately.

Their breaths came out in pleading gasps, pelting against the others lips. This was unfair, he couldn't hold onto his resolve, not like this. He couldn't even remember why he was so against this, why he tortured himself day in and day out. Whatever he was doing it wasn't working; he didn't want it to anymore.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes laughed to himself as he watched John frantically swinging his head in search of the guest of honor, the birthday boy, baby brother Sherlock Holmes. He noticed the usual guests were in attendance, friends of Sherlock's, which made him laugh even more. Leave it to Sherlock to get wrapped up with all these abhorrently normal people, how he did it Mycroft would never understand. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a small blonde head bobbing up and down away towards Sherlock's bedroom. Did no one listen to warnings anymore?

"John, is that, Dr. Braxton," Mycroft asked smugly, smiling mockingly.

"Oh uh, yeah she's here, somewhere," John replied, now searching the room for both Sherlock and her, "Have you met?"

"Briefly. She isn't safe with him."

"What? What do you mean?"

"My brother is a ruthless intellectual savage. He sacrifices whatever is necessary to reach the truth and she is not excluded. He would let her die if it became the key to solving his latest puzzle."

"You're wrong. He wouldn't do that. Not to her."

"I find you're faith in him truly inspirational, I do. But the facts remain; she is not safe with him. You need to get him as far away from her as possible."

"And how would I do that? He would find her. He's, falling in love with her, in some way, shape or form."

"Love? Sherlock doesn't know what it is. You mistake his current infatuation with her as, love. Emotionally, he's an empty shell. He cannot feel what he doesn't understand."

"You don't give him enough credit."

"You give him too much."

"I won't keep him from her. I can't."

"This will end in disaster John, mark my words."

Mycroft looked absolutely sinister, if John didn't know him to be nothing more than an arrogant ass, it must run in the family, he might have been slightly intimidated. John had no idea what Mycroft's intention was by his little warning; was he protecting Ev, or Sherlock? John had a haunting suspicion Mycroft really could care less about her, why would he? And why did he feel the need to pull Sherlock away from her? Surely as his brother, Mycroft should be happy Sherlock had found someone. Was he jealous? Or did he know more about he situation than John gave him credit for?

* * *

"He's my brother," Sherlock spoke softly, his lips centimeters away from hers.

"Your brother?" she spoke angrily, ripping herself away from him, taking a small piece of him with her.

"Yes. Mycroft."

"He's an asshole."

"Yes. But how do you know that?" Realization hit him like a brick, "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Uh... um, he offered something, I don't really remember. I was so mad-"

"Don't worry about him, he's an idiot."

How dare he? Sherlock recomposed himself, now was not the time for weak emotions, Mycroft had no right to pry into every facet of Sherlock's life to begin with, but especially not her. He straightened his jacket, ruffled his hair and ran out to greet the party’s latest arrival.

Ev felt a pang of fear hit her, Mycroft had known so much about her when she'd met him weeks ago, but did he know all of it? Had he looked further into her since then? Was he going to tell Sherlock? Whatever Mycroft knew, Sherlock could not, especially now. She ran out the door after him, her heart booming thunderously in her ears. She'd kept her past so tightly guarded, wiped it out of existence to anyone not in the loop. There was no way he could have discovered anything, no matter how persistent he might have been, but the people she knew, she couldn't erase their memories or the facts of her involvement with them. She needed to stop this train wreck before it began.

Sherlock and Mycroft stood in the foyer of the building, out of earshot of the other guests. Sherlock's mouth was down turned in an angry frown while Mycroft's face looked the polar opposite, grinning ear to ear.

"Well, aren't you going to introduce me?" Mycroft oozed, linking his hands in front of him.

"I've been informed you've already met," Sherlock spat, his nostrils flaring.

"Briefly, not enough to learn anything about her. Who is she?"

"A friend."

"A friend? Still doing that are you? Making friends?"

"No."

"Then what exactly do you call it?"

"Broadening my horizons."

Sherlock couldn't stand it, couldn't stand him. The sarcastic way his brother was looking at him stirred the pot of rage he kept buried deep down.

"Weren't you leaving?" Sherlock seethed, opening the front door and gesturing with his arm to the bustling London street.

"Proceed with caution, brother mine," Mycroft warned as he began his exit, "And happy birthday."

With an infuriated groan he slammed the door, the force rippling through the very foundation of the building. He dug his hands into his hair and pulled, letting the pain radiating from his scalp wash over him and replace the fire rampaging through his mind.

"Sherlock?" her voice called out to him, was she there, or was it a figment of his imagination?

His question was soon answered as her hands covered his, loosening his grip on his black curls, her presence extinguishing every bad thought he'd ever considered. He hadn't realized before just how much he _needed_ her, what her presence alone did for him. The cycle came full circle, he was done trying to stop it, he'd thought about it enough, for the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes knew he needed to follow his heart.

He tore his hands from his hair and wrapped them around her waist, pulling her body flush with his and sent his mouth crashing down onto hers. She squeaked in shock, freezing up for a brief second before locking her arms around his neck and pulling herself as close to him as was humanly possible. His lips moved frantically against her, the weeks of yearning and desire pouring out in his motions; they were fast and unhindered by the burden of his thoughts. Their mouths flowed effortlessly together, giving and taking, the speed alternating from slow and burning to hungry and desperate, both allowing small noises of approval to escape from their throats setting the other into more of a frenzy. His hands explored her back and hips, the feeling of her skin on his as he grazed a spot left unguarded by her now bunched up sweater was unimaginable; he had definitely not done her justice. Cautiously, he let his tongue slide along her bottom lip, remembering how she had done to him and she gratuitously allowed him access, coaxing him in further by pulling the hair on the back of his head. His tongue shot into her mouth, he was no longer thinking rationally, the only thing guiding him was the raw, primal urge he felt brewing in the pit of his stomach. Never before had he felt so free, so alive, so intoxicated; there wasn't a drug in the world that could produce these results. As their tongues waged war inside their clamoring lips he pushed her up against the nearest wall, moving his hands to her ribs, then her neck, and her hands followed his lead, sliding down to his chest, yanking and pulling on the fabric.

They didn't care they were in the hallway, or that anyone could walk in on them, their minds were clouded by the essence of the other. As their lips slowed to an adoring pace, each kiss lingering longer, his hand smoothing her hair as hers traced his perfectly carved jaw line, they took in the moment. They felt kindling love, acceptance, peace and an undeniable connection to the person in their arms, physically and emotionally. He could no longer deny his feelings for this woman, he no longer wanted to try; this was where he wanted to be.

"We should probably go back upstairs," she whispered, running her fingers along his prominent cheekbone.

"No," he answered immediately, "I'm going to get our things, we're leaving."

"To?"

"I don't care."

"Bring your violin."

"Why?"

"We'll go to my flat and play."

A surge of happiness worked through him as he moved in to plant one last kiss on her lips. Is this what it would always be like? He didn't feel judged, or self-conscious, or pitied, it was quite the opposite actually. Why had he _waited_ this long? Regretfully, he pulled himself away from her, gazing at her satisfied little smile with a sense of pride.

"Wait in your car," he instructed as he turned towards the stairs and excitedly jumped up two at a time; thirty was going to be a very good year.


	20. Chapter 19

** Chapter 19 **

"Curl now into me press you nose into my neck and breathe. I will not go away. When sleep you find and roll you do I will glue these fingertips to the smallest part of your back so if you ever wake and face the black part of night, you will know I never left."

-Tyler Knott Gregson

* * *

 

Sherlock stood silently before the front door of 221B Baker Street, his scarf snugly wrapped around his neck, his violin clutched in one gloved hand, but his feet were frozen. He knew what waited on the other side of that door, what he'd just done; did he regret it? He'd acted out of impulse, out of anger at Mycroft, this was what happened when he didn't _think_ , but did he regret it? She certainly wasn't what he wanted, no, she was better. She was warm, calming, intoxicating, and dangerous, but not regrettable.

His fingers wrapped around the cold metal door knob as he considered his options. If he went out to her car, there was no going back. He knew that, he wouldn't be able to turn back. If he didn't, she would never forgive him, and he would never forgive himself. Those were the choices; venturing unguarded into the unknown or forever walking an unending trail of self-accusation and condemnation, which was worse he couldn't quite figure out. One doesn't always need water to feel like they are drowning, and Sherlock felt the air thicken as his chest constricted, each heave more difficult than the last.

When he opened the door and looked outside, his questions were answered. His eyes found her sitting in the driver's seat of her running car, the fingers of one hand drumming nervously on the steering wheel, the other tracing her chin as her teeth gnawed the cuticles of her index finger. When her eyes met with his as he stood in the doorway, his mind had made its choice. Her hand fell slowly away from her face and a small smile lit up her features and his worries melted away. He couldn't even remember what he had been so concerned with. She smiled when she saw him, he could count the people he had that effect on with one finger, and she didn't pry or scrutinize or try to change him; if he was ever going to do this she was the only option, the only one he would choose.

His feet carried him closer to her car, he locked his wandering thoughts into the dark corners of his mind, only allowing the light emanating from her to fill the blackened voids. What was it about her? Was it her that captivated his interest, or her mystery? As he came to her window, he thought he knew for certain what the answer to that question was; her. He was entranced, the empty hole in his chest slowly being closed

She motioned with her head towards the passenger seat, urging him to peel his eyes away from her, if only for a moment, to get into the car, which he obeyed.

"What took you so long?" she asked, shifting her car into drive.

"I," he began, did he tell her it was because he couldn't decide if he had actually wanted to go?

"You..."

"I, couldn't find my gloves."

The remainder of the drive was continued in silence, each of them a prisoner in their racing minds. Ellie felt fear as Sherlock sorted through the confusion but one thought they shared was that this was right, there was no avoiding it. Sherlock certainly didn't believe in fate or soul mates or destiny, but he was starting to believe what his heart was telling him. It went against everything he thought he knew, leaving him confused and clueless to what he was now supposed to do. Ellie was afraid, afraid of getting hurt, of Sherlock discovering her unsavory past and the threatening darkness those years haunted her with. If it all came back to light, the destruction would be unrepairable.

As they pulled up to Everleigh’s flat, a realization hit Sherlock like a brick; he'd forgotten to get her coat. Panic flowed through him and he did the first thing that came to mind.

"Here," he stated as he handed his blue striped scarf to the woman to his right.

"What this for?" she asked, crinkling her face into the most endearing expression Sherlock was certain he'd ever seen.

"Because it's cold. You don't have a coat."

"Oh. I suppose I don't."

"Sorry."

 The scarf smelled just like him and Ev took in a deep breath as she wound it around her neck, the familiar scent of bar soap mixed with tobacco easing her bubbling nerves. The pair exited the car, Sherlock following excruciatingly close to her the entire walk up the pathway to her door. Her fingers were numb as she fumbled through her keys to find the one for her front door, resulting in the collection of keys and charms to go falling to the ground, hitting the pavement with a subdued clang. Before she could lean down to retrieve them, a dark head of curls appeared from behind her, two slender fingers holding the correct key out for her. His eyes were soft, the grey being slowly replaced with blue, a ring of gold emerging from the black of his pupil.

"I'm," she began, trying to build the courage to say what had been idly pooling in her heart since he'd gotten into her car, "Thanks."

She mentally slapped herself, how did she expect to get anywhere if she couldn't even _talk_ to him?

"Are you, going to open the door?" he asked, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion, eyes darting from the left back to the right.

"I'm sorry," she breathed, feeling the familiar burn of tears brimming her eyes.

Anxiety began building in Sherlock again, this couldn't be good. With his free hand he took the key from her frozen fingers and unlocked door, a warm blast of air refreshing both of their icy cheeks. The warmth helped Ellie recompose herself, she had absolutely no reason to cry, not right now, she was finally getting what she'd been so desperately hoping for; Sherlock. Her feet began to move and she stepped into the her flat, her eyes instantly darting over to her piano in the living room, the anticipation of playing accompanied by Sherlock's violin relighting her excitement and shoving all feeling of doubt to the back of her mind.

His footsteps padded lightly behind her as she heard her front door click closed, the proximity of his body to hers caused goose bumps to erupt across her alabaster skin. All the times she’d imagined this happening had left her ill prepared for this moment. She’d sworn she had thought out every possibility of what could happen, but as she stood with her back to him, his large, dark form only inches away, she had no idea where to go or what to do. She wanted to turn around and bury herself into his chest, forget her troubles and the loneliness that gnawed at her every waking moment, just give in to her heart and her head, but she knew he didn’t want the same thing. But as Sherlock stood behind her, again marveling at her hair shimmering in the light, he fought the urge to gently take her by the upper arm and turn her into him, he needed her like the stars needed the night, as a safe harbor, somewhere the faint light in him could be seen.

“I-“ he began, causing Ellie’s heart to hammer, “I’ll go wait in the sitting room.”

She watched as he walked away, his black coat swaying at his knees, her breath returning to its normal rhythm. He pulled her emotions in two opposite directions, both tugging, battling to overtake the other. On one side pulled happiness, on the other, fear, neither giving in, neither relenting.

Her feet slowly carried her in the direction of the sitting room, her mind berating her with possibilities, both good and bad. The butterflies fluttered to life, before the dread sent them falling defunct back down to the pit of her stomach. She saw his shoes first, the toes tapping nervously on the floor, before the rest of his body came into view. He was sitting on the couch, both head and shoulders were slouched over, his head in his hands; he looked sad, innocent, and afraid. She felt stupid, she had no reason to be so nervous, he was in worse condition than she was, his jittering toes and tangled hair gave it away.

She came to stand in front of him, his gaze remained averted to the floor, toes still tapping on the ground. What did he think he was doing? He couldn’t do this, he didn’t know how, or why, this wasn’t how it _worked_. This was science, with facts and evidence, it was all chemical reactions, simple biology, so why couldn’t it explain the physical pain he felt when he was alone? Where was the text book answer to the tangible emptiness that accompanied her absence? He had wracked his brain for days, weeks, but her effect was still inexplicable. There was no chemical combination, no physiological explanation for Everleigh Braxton.

Her hands came to gently rest over his, in the same manner they had earlier in the evening, with the same effect. A wave of calming energy washed through him, easing every nerve from his brain through the tips of his fingers and toes. His breath evened and his heart slowed as his hands loosened their grips on his now disheveled curls.

Her fingers entwined with his, her palms softly covering the tops of his hands, warm and inviting. He lifted his head, finally turning his gaze to her, her brown eyes welcoming and reassuring him. He looked so lost, and it broke her heart; he was far too brilliant and innocent to have been corrupted by cruelty, for his soul to be left shattered and broken at the bottom of his chest. She leaned her head down towards him and she watched his face contort slightly in confusion.

“Why are you doing this?” he whispered, his warm breath hitting her lips.

People didn’t want him, not unless they needed him for something. He wasn’t a man someone simply _chose_ to spend their time with; except for John, he at least assumed for now. He was rude, arrogant, and stubborn, he held every single undesirable trait known to man, and he definitely wasn’t someone a person chose to start a romantic, intimate relationship with.

“What?” she responded, shocked by his strange question.

“Why? What do you need from me? I’ve already told you I’ll help you, you don’t need to do this,” he answered, his mouth down turning in a frown after the words had passed through his lips.

“Why would you assume it’s because I want something?”

“There’s no other explanation.”

“Really? None? You’re absolutely certain that the only reason I’m spending time with you, is because I need you to do something?”

“Or someone is trying to get into my head. Mycroft, Moriarty… the list is endless.”

“Or maybe, you’re just not always right about everything.”

“Well-”

He was swiftly cut off by a sweeter kiss than he could have ever imagined. Her nose pressed tightly against his and her hands came to either side of his head, pushing his face further towards hers. It wasn’t romantic, or sensual, it was desperate and pleading; an attempt to show him that he was wrong, she did need him, but not for a case or a task or work. She needed him like the ocean needed the moon; his entire being pulling her whenever he was near, making her stronger, and that power dissipating, sending her retreating back when he was gone. His lips finally formed around hers, melting the tension she had been holding. She wondered how she could prove to him that she was just as broken as he was, she was no prize. Next to her, Sherlock Holmes looked like an angel, but she knew he didn’t see her in that light.

“I wonder the same thing you know,” she began softly, leaving her forehead pressed firmly against his, “Why you, choose to spend any fraction of time with me.”

She felt his brown furrow against hers, but she kept her eyes closed. He was brilliant, and he carefully chose exactly who he spent every second with, not willing to waste even one on anyone unworthy, and the people he felt were a waste of time, knew it. But he wanted to spend time with her, a lot of time with her, and she didn’t deserve it.

“Everyone always leaves me,” she added sadly.

She didn’t know why she confessed that to him, it sounded pathetic, but as soon as the words left her mouth she felt like a weight had been lifted. She had kept her sadness locked away for so long, she’d forgotten what it felt like to release it.

Her words echoed through him. How could people be so willing to leave her? She was smart and beautiful and flawed and strong, to be in her presence was a gift in itself. Why would anyone cast such a precious thing away? Perhaps he saw a certain beauty in broken things, a familiarity that he identified with, but she was more than just her scattered, irreparable pieces. He felt his face grow hot with rage towards all those who had abandoned her, how stupid their small, insignificant minds had been to not truly see the wondrous being before them.

The words danced like wildfire on the tip of his tongue ‘I’ll never leave you’; he wouldn’t, he could never. To live in a world where she didn’t exist, that wasn’t much of a world at all, not anymore. Nothing would ever be able to replace the feeling of her fingertips against his skin, the sweet taste of her lips as they molded against his, not a drug or a drink or any distraction could take her place. ‘I’ll never leave you’, he thought again, but his brain stopped the words from passing his teeth.

“I’m sorry, that must be difficult,” he said, his voice shaking, regret washing over him as he heard his deep voice speak the words.

Her eyes averted down, that certainly hadn’t been the response she had hoped for and he knew that. He wondered in that moment which was worse, saying something and wishing you hadn’t, or saying nothing and wishing you had? His mind stuttered through different things to say to make up for his insensitive response but nothing was making sense. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him, lying back onto the couch and positioning her between his legs, her head resting gently on his chest, he’d remembered John doing it with one of his blubbering girlfriends before and they’d seemed to like it. He felt her body disarm and relax into him as her hand came to rest on the other side of his chest, putting his mind slightly at ease. She listened to his heart beating steadily in his chest, letting her head loll with the deep rise and fall from his breathing as his arms wrapped tightly around her, guarding her from any and all harm. He so was warm she realized as she felt herself going into an almost meditative state, the consistency of his heart and breath lulling her into a blissful rest.

“So much for-” Sherlock began, tucking his chin to get a better look at her face, but stopping when he noticed she was fast asleep.

Her eyelids were fluttering, her lips slightly parted, her face was soft and at ease. She looked so much different, so peaceful and he smiled slightly to himself as he settled his head back into the pillow. And just like that the hole that had ripped its way through him all those years ago had been sewn shut by the lingering fingers dancing to the rhythm of slow, sleepy breaths.


End file.
